


Antinous Wild

by thesunwontset



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunwontset/pseuds/thesunwontset
Summary: Enjolras has been dead for 2 years, and Grantaire has been living his miserable excuse of a life in a small town far from Paris, having close to no contact to their previous group of friends. One day, due to a supernatural occurence Enjolras comes back from the dead, safe and sound, looking just like he did two years ago - except for one thing: he has no memories of his relationship with Grantaire.Can Grantaire overcome his grief and learn to love again? Will Enjolras (if he really is Enjolras) remember who Grantaire is and what they used to be to each other? And will Combeferre ever properly clean his glasses?Enjolras keeps scaring Grantaire and Éponine loves grapes.   Love! Grief! Self-deprecating humor! Magic!





	1. Chapter 1

In the small town of Adamant, the sunsets were red like something dying. It painted the evening sky with a ferocious color, forever growing in its intensity, and then becoming all black at its peak, like something going out of this world fiercely.

It was a cruel thing to behold, and Grantaire had never loved anything quite so badly. The sunset was his and only his; for a few minutes a day he was given something so unspeakably magnificent it made him want to cry in the most cliché way.

His heart pumped in his chest with a strange sort of anger, his blood rushing through his veins, his cheeks burning and his feet cold as ice. The death of the day gave Grantaire _life_.

It was a symphony like no other, the way summer would burn through all of them here, in the middle of nowhere. Grantaire could hear it now, his mind stuck between the staccato bursts of those early days in the city, when it was all light and warmth and _now_ , dirty mahogany tables and cafés with cigarette smoke you couldn’t see through. The sun showered the empty beach in its delicious crimson as the sounds in Grantaire’s head rearranged themselves into a chaotic finale.

All streets and birds and university lectures, coffee with too much sugar as you pretended to pay attention to a friend rambling. It was all background noise however; these flashes merely gave way to the core of the song, the verse that discussed what Paris really meant to those kids who ruled it. Grantaire reached out his hand into the red evening light – and there he was, Enjolras, walking towards him, carrying himself like something divine.

He smiled at Grantaire, like he would, seemingly amused by having found him here.

“I’m beginning to think you love the shore more than me,” he said as he reached him.

“Never. Also, _shore_? You might want to start talking like a person and just say _beach_.”

“That just sounds so wrong. It’s not like anybody bathes here. The water is too cold.”

“ _You’re_ too cold,” Grantaire bit back, grinning as the other man punched him in the arm. Enjolras sighed, almost fondly, and Grantaire was kidding himself if he thought Enjolras was a verse. He was the whole goddamn song.

“Shut up, you know I’m not. You’re just here so much.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I get it. It really is beautiful here. I’m glad you brought me.”

Grantaire could feel tears fill his eyes. The sun was very low in the sky now, its light painting them both rather violently.

“I didn’t,” he replied, clearing his throat. Enjolras snapped his head at him.

“What?”

“I never brought you here, Enjolras. We never got to come here together.”

Red, orange, more red, and for a moment, purple.

“I- I don’t understand.”

The sun, as if on cue, sank beneath the never-ending sea, and in the dark, Enjolras disappeared.

Grantaire walked home alone.

**

“I love grapes,” Éponine said, her words barely comprehensible as she stuffed a handful of grapes in her mouth. _I wuv gabes._ In the TV screen light, her dark skin appeared slightly blue, in a rather smurf-like manner.

Grantaire made a fist, cracking his joints.

“Yes, you love grapes, I know, you just love grapes so much, they’re the light of your life, you just love grapes, we get it.”

“Did you just fucking _meme_ me?”

“Sounds so dirty when you say it like that.”

“I’ll give you dirty, you fuck,” she said, then frowned, like even she was surprised how a small girl like her could have such a low, raspy voice. That couldn’t have been true of course. Éponine was not surprised by anything. She had the kind of face that remained unmoved by everything, like if you threw a dead body in front of her, she would just raise an eyebrow and murmur: ’what else is new?’

Grantaire envied that, to be quite honest. It must have been cool to walk the face of the earth like that.

“As fun as that sounds,” he said, arching his neck to be able to see the clock on the stove, “you can’t make good on that promise. You have to go.”

“Oh right, my shift.”

Éponine jumped to her feet, dropping the bowl full of grape stalks on the floor in the process. Grantaire sighed, leaning down to pick it all up.

Éponine put on her ancient leather jacket, shaking out her hair. Grantaire stood up with the bowl, taking a good look at her. She looked nice, her eyeliner intimidating as ever.

“Are you coming?”

“To witness yet another episode of _Cheers_ starring Pontmercy?” Grantaire mused. “No thanks.”

Éponine made a face at that. She worked at the local bar slash pub, the _Vine and Dime._ A guy called Mabeuf owned the place, and he thought the name gave the place a cool medieval feeling. Éponine fucking hated that name. _It’s anachronistic is what it is_ , she would say. _They didn’t even use dimes in the middle ages._

The only reason she started working there (apart from the fact that she badly needed the cash) was Marius Pontmercy, a tall goof with an okay smile that Éponine, for some mysterious reason unbeknownst to Grantaire, was desperately, pathetically in love with.

He wasn’t as bad as all that, but the fact that he was completely oblivious to Éponine’s feelings and used her as a lap dog made him utterly unlikeable to Grantaire.

“It’s not going to be like _Cheers_ ,” she argued. “Like, not _everybody_ knows his name. Mabeuf doesn’t. He keeps calling him Magnus.”

Grantaire smirked. “Beautiful, I’ll start calling him that. Maybe he notices.”

“Marius is not much of a _noticer_.”

“Here’s a little game I like to call: List Shit Marius Is Unaware Of.”

“That Montparnasse keeps stealing from him.”

“When it’s raining out.”

“That time Musichetta kissed his cheek and he walked around with lipstick stains the whole day.”

“The mortgage on his house.”

“Me.”

Grantaire’s heart skipped a beat. “You win this round.”

“Duh. You’re really not going to come?”

He licked his lips. “Can’t. I’m afraid Parnasse will steal from me too.”

“I promise he won’t. He’s in jail,” Éponine said, her expression bored, somewhere along the lines of _just another Tuesday night with Éponine_. The girl was crazy. Crazy awesome.

“…Okay. Still, I have to pass.”

“There’s going to be booze, man. Maybe we’ll go _wild_ and bring out the board games.”

“Nope.”

“You never come out these days,” she mumbled.

“Just tired, I guess,” he shrugged, making his way to the kitchen.

Éponine frowned, and glanced at the ground. “Enjolras is dead.”

Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks. Something cold was opening up inside his chest.

Éponine continued on, ruthless. “He’s dead, R. Gone. He’s not going to come back.”

Words. He should probably say them at some point.

“I know he’s dead.”

“But you’re _alive._ Grantaire, I love you, and I know that the past two years have been hell for you, but you can’t keep doing this, closing yourself up, I. This isn’t living. You don’t talk to people; you barely leave the house. You either don’t drink at all for weeks or, or I find you passed out in the bathroom. And I’m not going to _fucking_ watch you destroy yourself. _Jesus_ , you’re alive, Grantaire.”

A darkness made its bed in Grantaire’s smirk. “You sure about that?”

“R-”

“You can go now.”

“Grantaire, I just-”

“I’ll see you, Éponine,” Grantaire said, cutting her off, something so stern and cold in his voice that made Éponine back off. She shut her eyes for a second, then took off, slamming the door behind her.

Grantaire walked slowly into the kitchen, putting the bowl with the grapes on the table. He sat down and stared at it, never turning on the lights.

An echo of Éponine’s voice _(Enjolras is dead, Enjolras is dead, Enjolras is dead Enjolras is)_ kept him company for the night.

**

It was summer then too, when Grantaire first met Enjolras, very unlike all the summers to come though. The city was trapped in the heat, and the heavy quiet every excruciating morning brought with itself, and every day it was harder and harder to stare at the graffiti on the subway.

Grantaire was never unhappier – see how funny it was? The universe would laugh itself dead from the beautiful and terrible irony, because Grantaire would think of that time in his life now and see no unhappiness, only a sweet emptiness, days filled with anticipation.

Every Monday morning and Thursday afternoon led to meeting Enjolras, all the dead ends in the maze just one more chance to go the right way, to amazingly, incredibly, _unbelievably_ be at that library where Joly spent his free hours, to say ‘bless you’ to him when he sneezed, to start talking to him about meaningless mundane stuff, to be his friend.

All of that led Grantaire to _him._

Such a beautiful time, looking back. On the other side of the mirror, however, the Grantaire who was just starting college and was so dissatisfied with the world he could barely wake up in the morning, _that_ Grantaire didn’t think very highly of the way his life was.

He liked Joly, sure, a totally decent fellow, but he never once thought it to be a cosmic miracle that they became friends.

He truly had no idea what was coming.

**

“So I have this favor to ask you,” Joly said to him one day, at the park maybe – no, at the pub, Grantaire remembered people talking loudly over them, cheering some game on television.

“Oh great.”

“Yeah,” Joly agreed, staring at him with a bemused expression on his face. Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“And are you going to tell me what it is? Let me in on the secret?”

Joly’s eyes widened. “Oh sure! Please come to a meeting with me.”

“A meeting? Joly, are you. Selling drugs?” Grantaire asked, doing a stage whisper that made Joly wrinkle his nose.

“What? Gosh, no. Jesus. No, it’s a student-thing. It’s at this café, the, the Musain?”

“Never heard of it. Also, a student thing? Please tell me you’re not thinking about extra credits? Joly, it’s summer.”

“It’s near campus, I think. The café, I mean. And I know it’s summer, it’s not for a class, just a thing some students are doing.”

“But what is the _thing_? I’m burning up with curiosity here, dude,” Grantaire replied, lifting his arms for extra measure.

“They talk politics, mostly.”

“Ew.”

Joly sighed.

“I knew you were going to say that, but, listen, R. It’s a good thing. A bunch of people come together every week or so-”

“Every _week?_ Eager much?”

“-and they discuss, you know, social problems, organize rallies, raise awareness. That stuff,” Joly continued, taking no notice of Grantaire’s interruption, his hands seemingly stuck in a weird cycle of gestures. He looked almost nervous to be talking about this. Grantaire swallowed, weirdly aware of this tongue.

“And you really want to go, huh?”, he said, narrowing his eyes.

Joly looked up to meet his eye. “Yeah.”

Grantaire sighed.

“And do I have to go? Do you have no other friends?”

Joly beamed at him, as if certain of his victory, and said, “Nope.”

“You better buy me booze though,” Grantaire said, and shook his head. Joly winked at him.

“Or else.”

**

They called themselves The Friends, capitalized like that, and Grantaire’s mind immediately went in an _I’ll Be There For You_ sort of direction. The turnout was surprising though, they barely fit in the small back room of the café, all these kids who were somehow interested in the affairs of the world? Grantaire could not wrap his mind around it.

Even for a group of people called The Friends, well, they were extremely friendly. A tall, bald guy made a beeline at them the moment they entered, a little bell above the door indicating their arrival. He shook hands with both of them, introduced himself confusingly as both Bossuet and Lesgle.

“I’m so glad you guys came,” he claimed, his smile practically ripping his face in half, and Grantaire felt almost bad. This person (albeit misguided), seemed so sincere and smiled at him so nicely. His hands shook a little as he returned his greeting, something like guilt in his stomach. What was the _deal._

“So are we,” Joly replied, answering Bossuet/Lesgle’s grin.

“Yeah,” Grantaire added lamely. The conversation continued without him. Joly and Bossuet (that was the name he actually used) turned out to be from the same town, and they rambled on enthusiastically about buildings and old ladies that were somehow significant. Grantaire tuned out, looking around the room. There were a few people here he’d seen around – quite a few actually. Combeferre from his Roman Myth class, and maybe he knew that other guy too, what was his name again. Yes. Feuilly. Wow, come to think of it, he had classes with a lot of these people, weird. There was something to be said about idealistic freshmen.

A quiet seemed to spread over the room, everyone finding somewhere to sit. Grantaire went with the flow, taking his seat at one of the back tables, taking out his sketchbook in case this got real boring real quick. All eyes turned to a guy standing at the front, looking hesitantly over all of them. Tall dude, wearing a hoodie too bright for this world, and his face-

Every breath left Grantaire’s body. It felt like mighty trees growing.

**

His name was Enjolras, and he was. Well, an idiot. The guy started talking and what came out was all academic terms, action plans and flashy PowerPoint presentations but, the way he talked, God. Something in his voice ignited everything inside Grantaire and it made him think of The X Files, because when Enjolras started speaking, Grantaire wanted to dress up in I Want To Believe T-shirts and roam the streets of the city, and just set fire to everything that was in his way.

He had a very peculiar voice like that.

As hesitant as he seemed before stepping up, Enjolras was all fire when he started speaking, opening up and something magnetic shining through his cracks. His beautiful pale skin seemed to glow and his feet could have been levitating from the ground as far as Grantaire knew. He wanted to draw Enjolras – no, he wanted to take him in his hands and beg him to step into the pages of his sketchbook and heal every drawing he could find there, amend the weak sketches that could never compare to the real thing.

Grantaire could not believe this. Fucking hell, his hands actually shook just from stealing a glance at Enjolras’ face, just from listening to the rise and fall of his voice, a voice that reminded Grantaire of something like the sea, changing from soft waves crashing to raging storms and burying those who could not swim.

Grantaire was shipwrecked in Enjolras’ voice.

It was, of course, perfectly and absolutely unfair that someone who ran tremors through Grantaire’s whole body without realizing it would be the kind of person who thought writing strongly worded letters to politicians would change the world.

He was talking about a possible sit-down strike now, with occasional inputs from Combeferre and a guy named Courfeyrac, who both seemed to catch every meaning of his with perfect ease, and they apparently wanted to protest the mistreat of retail workers, and Grantaire wasn’t even surprised, God.

Grantaire had taken to observe Enjolras’ cheekbones in greater depth, following the lines of his face as if mesmerized. The neon lights hit Enjolras’ face in exciting ways, coloring him quite ethereal, and it made Grantaire smile. This Enjolras did not belong here, among the folding chairs and the dirty tables, he stood out like the ripest fruit between the leaves.

A sit-down strike, seriously. _Like that would do anything._

“Excuse me, would you like to say something.” And apparently, Grantaire had said this last bit out loud. Enjolras was looking right at him _– him_ – now, his blue eyes cold but alive with an annoyance that made his aristocratic features even more obvious.

Enjolras was already painting himself every moment, and Grantaire didn’t have to do a goddamn thing.

“Uh,” Grantaire said, his mouth, once again, a death trap, “no. Um, you’re fine.”

 _Really_ fine.

“Is that right? Then why are you interrupting this discussion,” asked Enjolras, his lips in a definite pout now, this was beyond ridiculous, the guy was a phony, why did it make Grantaire’s blood boil.

“Is it a discussion though? Or are you just preparing a big monologue?”

 “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Experimental theatre? It’s cool, man. You’re like that scene in The Lion King when Simba practices his hollering. It’s adorable.”

Wow. He had really just said that.

Enjolras seemed taken aback as well, and so did, basically, everyone else in the room. Combeferre’s mouth twitched but he disguised it by adjusting his glasses, and Courfeyrac was making eyes so wide at Grantaire you’d think it was Christmas morning. Grantaire was vaguely aware of Joly gaping at him from across the room, and of laughter from one side or another, but all he had eyes for was Enjolras.

Enjolras, who was looking at him with delicious, outright fury. Grantaire felt almost accomplished at being able to pull a reaction like that from such a godlike figure. His face was hot from all the blood rushing to it, his arms felt strong and sure at his sides; he hadn’t felt this good in weeks, and he hadn’t even had a drink yet.

Enjolras was still looking at him, worrying his lip, and Grantaire was fully, completely awake.

“Well,” Enjolras finally said, “if you’re so dissatisfied with how we talk about things here, why don’t you speak up? I’m sure you have countless excellent points, uh-”

“-Grantaire,” he put in, seeing Enjolras’ hesitance. “And how _could_ I speak up, dude? You seem to entertain the idea that writing letters to suits and sitting down in inappropriate places will somehow make a difference. Apart from getting a chill, obviously. I don’t see how we could see eye to eye here.”

“Then what do you suggest we do, Grantaire?” Enjolras said, hissing, as though he was seeking to impersonate a cat.

“You mean like besides literally anything else? Gee, I don’t know man. A cookie sale is always an option.”

“Grantaire,” Joly stage-whispered, outraged. Grantaire merely smirked, bathing in Enjolras’ attention. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had the vague idea that insulting the other boy was way out of line and he should probably quit it at some point, but he enjoyed being out of the darkness at last, and talking to Enjolras, arguing with him, felt like running towards the sun.

“Sit-down strikes have the history of-“

“-not working? Sure. Listen, man, I really don’t want to tell you how to do your thing, but I do want to say just this one thing, it’s one of those days. Peaceful protests make zero difference; no one is going to listen to something as quiet as that. What you need to do here is make actual noise-”

Enjolras seemed to actually listen to what he was saying now, his scoff fading away and making room for something more focused, but still terrifying. Grantaire swallowed.

“I’m not sure jumping up and down is the right way-,” Combeferre began, but Grantaire shook his head.

“Romania in 1989, Egypt, Cuba, Occupy Wall Street-”

“Occupy was a failure though,” Enjolras added, but he seemed almost intrigued by Grantaire giving such a specific advice. To be completely honest, Grantaire was pretty surprised as well. He hadn’t even been planning on paying attention.

“But you _have_ heard of it, right?” Grantaire smirked, which Enjolras returned with something resembling a half smile, which, wow. Grantaire was not prepared.

**

Once the so-called meeting was over and everyone was packing up their stuff, Grantaire, probably still high on adrenaline and just hopelessly stupid, walked over to Enjolras, who was organizing his notes now, shoulders hunched in a way that was unbecoming.

“So what’s up, dude? Are you a Poli-Sci student?”

Enjolras looked at him, perplexed.

“You’ve just argued with me in front of 20 people - and now you want to small talk?

“Sure, why not?”

“You. You compared me to a baby lion.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that,” Grantaire whispered, leaning in, and something twinkling in Enjolras’ eyes made him feel very brave for a second, which probably led to him bursting out with, “anyway, I just came over here to ask you if you are a way to block water.”

“ _What_?”

Grantaire looked him in the eyes solemnly.

“Because _damn_.”

Enjolras closed his eyes for a long moment.

“That is. The worst pick-up line I have ever heard. Like, bar none.”

“Yeah, I bet you hear a lot though, huh?”

Enjolras huffed, disbelieving. He turned his head, and Grantaire could see that his cheeks were getting flushed in a very becoming way.

“Look, I don’t know if you’re joking or-”

“Listen man, I tell excellent jokes, you would know, because you would be laughing. Just – quality humor. That’s what I offer to the masses. And anyway, what I’m trying to say here is that I never go up to people I just met like this, so, really, this is all your fault.”

 This last bit caught them both so off guard that for a moment neither of them could keep a straight face.

“ _My_ fault?”

“Yeah. Our argument was too good and somehow my brain short-circuited, and I am beginning to think there is no way out now. And also, I tend to speak until someone actually, physically stops me, so-”

Enjolras blinked at him.

“Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll stop me? Or-”

“Okay, I’ll go out with you,” Enjolras said, his face somehow overwhelmingly earnest.

“Really?” Grantaire grinned, then frowned. “Wait, did I actually ask you out?”

“Well, I thought you were getting there,” Enjolras said sheepishly. “But-”

“No, no, that was totally where I was going. No way out now.”

Enjolras smiled. “Okay.”

“I’m just kidding. You can actually back out anytime. Actually, I would fear for your sanity if you didn’t.”

“Oh great,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes.

_(Enjolras is dead Enjolras is dead Enjolras is dead Enjolras is)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the real protagonist: Grantaire's answering machine. Meanwhile, something inexplicable happens.

The answering machine seemed to have a life of its own these days.

_\--Hey, Grantaire, wow, I keep thinking you’re going to have a long outgoing but then it’s just two words, haha. Oh, it’s Cosette. Or did I say that? I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m just checking in, haven’t heard from you in a while. I miss you – we miss you, actually. All of us. Oh my God, the funniest thing happened the other day, okay, we were walking downtown, right? And all of a sudden a homeless person shows up at the corner, and of course we give him money – oh yeah, I was with Bossuet, I don’t think I’ve mentioned that. So we give him some money, and Bossuet asks, bless him, ‘Is there anything we can do for you? A place to stay, maybe?’ Because the guy looked pretty worn, you know. But then he looks at us, and—_

_\--okay your machine cut me off, but here I am again. There is no running away, hah, I am definitely finishing this story. So the guy looks at us, especially at Bossuet, frowns at him, almost like he’d just said something gross, and goes: ‘Ew, no thanks.’ Almost like he knew Bossuet is a walking disaster, you know, even a homeless guy has to have standards, right? Haha yeah. It was really funny, and we thought of you. You would have appreciated the irony, probably. When are you coming to see us? Joly has been preparing to cook the meal of a lifetime, it’s really very Mrs. Bennet from Pride and Prejudice. Anyway, call me! Or someone. Love you._

Grantaire let out a puff of air, staring at the machine. This was nothing new, of course. Cosette would do this every couple of days, call and chat away about anything that had been going on with her – and with Them, capitalized like that, lingering behind Grantaire, keeping his stomach tight every time he as much as had to think of their previous group of friends, back in the city. He almost couldn’t wrap his head around it, the fact that The Friends were still around, still living some sort of life on the remains of the old one, somehow brave enough to walk the streets Enjolras used to walk, to sit where he used to sit, to stand where he stood-

Grantaire could not bear it, could not even comprehend the thought, because for him all of it died with Enjolras that day two years ago. For Grantaire, nothing remained in Paris but a terrible empty space with a whiteness so eerie and unbearable it tore at his very being.

Paris made Grantaire angry because Paris took Enjolras away.

And his _friends_ lived in that city still.

The word _friends_ may have been a slight stretch, seeing as Grantaire hadn’t really talked to any of them for over a year, messages from Cosette notwithstanding. As far as he knew, the group fell apart in its official capacity after Enjolras.

Combeferre was probably a resident by now, in a white coat and a stethoscope, telling kids to say ‘aaaah’, his glasses dirty as ever. In Grantaire’s imagination, Combeferre would sigh at difficult kids the way he used to when Grantaire said something stupid, with a fondness he couldn’t help.

He really did like Combeferre a lot, and after all, what was not to like? He knew him from university, back in those early days before he met them all, and always thought he was a good guy. But Combeferre was more than that. He was smart, exceptionally smart, and patient, almost like a good-hearted old wizard from a children’s book – an old man in the body of an Algerian med student. When Grantaire would think of him, he would see him always, always by Enjolras’ side, looking over him gently, the way he would.

Combeferre completed and corrected him, but what was Combeferre without Enjolras? Combeferre was soft, sweet in his cleverness and his words, Combeferre was all warmth without the fire, and for Grantaire, he felt like a painful echo of what could have been great once.

Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac- oh, Courfeyrac’s name he’d seen on a theatre pamphlet some time ago, unsurprised by the turn of events; to think of Courfeyrac was to think of a stage empty but for him, to see him fill it up just with his presence. Grantaire was invited to see the other man in a play a few days after seeing the pamphlet, but he could never make himself go. Courfeyrac used to be all smiles and goodness and dirty jokes and it would have broken Grantaire’s heart to see Enjolras’ ghost following him around on stage.

The rest of the group he knew less about. Even Joly, who used to be his best friend and drinking buddy, was rather a blur to him. He’d heard that he had moved in with Bossuet, but that was about it. From Cosette’s messages he managed to put together that she was rooming with them for the time being, struggling to make ends meet ever since her dad passed away- Oh. Grantaire was sometimes so consumed by his own loss he had a tendency to forget about the grief others suffered. Here was Cosette, pure and bright and brilliant, having lost not only one of her friends but also a parent, and was she hiding out in a no name town feeling sorry for herself? No, she was braving it.

But Grantaire could never be like Cosette, who was always the best of them, when he, Grantaire, was always the worst. Really, even after everything – after falling in love with Enjolras and miraculously having Enjolras fall in love with him in return, Grantaire was never a believer. He was skeptic of the groups attempts to make the world a Better PlaceTM.

He would have much rather spent their time together drinking and screwing around than planning out the next tergiversation, but he’d gotten caught up in the life of The Friends, gotten used to their determined cheerfulness, to their idea of a focused fun time. He’d gotten to see all of them through Enjolras’ eyes, and through Enjolras, Grantaire got to fall in love with all of The Friends. They were beautiful, wonderful people, who were not to blame for Enjolras’ death. Grantaire knew that. But.

He simply couldn’t bear to breathe the same air as them, to see their faces and share the pain with all of them, to have them try to comfort him in his loss which they’d considered the greatest. He couldn’t live in that apartment all alone, he couldn’t drive that car with the passenger seat empty beside him.

And so Grantaire did what he did best – he ran away.

**

_Vine and Dime_ was a dirty little bar at the end of the main street, and therefore it was the most popular outing place for the people of Adamant. The television set in the corner was always on, occasionally screaming out phrases such as _sunny afternoons_ , _the Irish were hammered in the final_ , and _now only for 99.99._

Now small people could be seen running around on a green field, probably chasing something, but Grantaire could not identify the sport. He took a seat right at the bar, nodding at Musichetta who was carrying a large tray full of colorful drinks.

The counter had a stain so red it made Grantaire question his decision to come out tonight.

“Hey,” a soft, rough voice greeted him. He looked up; Éponine was quick to disinfect the counter, making the stain vanish at once, her dark hair falling over her eyes. When she was done, she grimaced at the place of the stain. “Sorry about that.”

“…It’s okay.”

“Marius was here earlier. He spilt his drink.”

Grantaire smiled. “Of course he did.”

“What can I get you?” Éponine’s voice was all professionalism, her face blank, which probably meant she was embarrassed about what happened between them earlier that night. Her makeup was smeared around her eyes, dark and sincere as she gazed at him.

“Regret on the rocks please.”

“Ah,” Éponine murmured, a smile ghosting over her face, “but I hear regret leaves a terrible aftertaste, and sadly we’re out of Diet Coke for you to wash it down with.”

“Just my luck,” Grantaire said, shrugging. Éponine put her hand over his.

“Hey. Are we good?”

“You know it, Thénardier.”

“I’m so sorry, Grantaire.”

“What? Don’t be. You were completely in the right.”

“I was completely an asshole, you mean,” Éponine said. She shook her head, slowly. “Fuck. I don’t even know what came over me.”

“You just told me how it was. I was being a self-pitying, pathetic-ass person, and now here I am, at this shitty bar, being a _social_ pathetic-ass person. You keep me honest, woman.”

She breathed out in a way that could be interpreted as a laugh, then said, “No, seriously. I, I was too cold. I just. I love you, asshole. And I want you to be happy.”

“Aww, that’s so nice.”

“Get out of this bar.”

Grantaire laughed, throwing his head back, sounding almost like himself.

“No,” he said a few minutes later, his grape juice turning him quite solemn. “I’m glad you said… that stuff. I need that, Éponine. For you to tell me how you really feel.”

“Thanks.”

“And it’s not like you’re going tell _Marius_ how you really feel.”

“Wow. Not cool,” she exclaimed, slapping him with a dirty tablecloth.

“This is so _gross._ ”

He didn’t drink anything apart from the one glass of questionable fruit juice, and he could barely hear Éponine over the loud shouts the local sports fans let out every other second, but ironically, it was one of the best nights Grantaire had had in a really long time.

The gaping hole in his chest momentarily subsided as he saw Éponine roll her eyes at his lame jokes, or when he got to witness Musichetta shout at loud guests, or when Mabeuf came out from the back room and told everyone to tone it down because he couldn’t hear his movie with all of them blabbering about.

Midnight, however, was definitely the time when things started to change around Grantaire. The room started to swirl around him, distorting in strange ways, and in his peripheral vision, something dark seemed to be forming, following him but vanishing when he tried to look directly in its direction.

He couldn’t take it, the way this darkness made him feel, uneasy, shapeless, filled with violent tremors, and so Grantaire did the only thing he really knew how to do – he attempted to drink away his troubles. Back in the day, a drink or two was simply a social custom, something to do just to pass the time, a way to have careless fun. But now, it was different; drinking felt like coming home to a cold, unforgiving apartment, stumbling over your messy furniture and trying to touch the darkness itself.

He could feel it now, the drink opening up a door inside him, the alcohol pulsing through his veins. Black and familiar. When Grantaire drank, it was a way of deconstructing himself, a state of living on the edge of a mighty abyss and staring into the vastness.

As terrible as he knew it was, it _did_ actually work, making the uneasy shapes in the corner of his eye disappear completely. When he drank, Grantaire became somebody again: his laughter throatier, his eyes wider, his hands steadier – Grantaire, illuminated.

Éponine kept looking at him, stealing worried glances at Grantaire every other minute.

She hated it when he got drunk these days, hated what it did to him. Having a beer or two on a night out with friends was one thing, but Grantaire’s poison was that he couldn’t really stop once he started, only when someone took the drink away from his hands, and that someone very often ended up being Éponine.

“Hey,” she said, patting him on the shoulder just as he finished telling a terribly pointless story to an elderly man sitting alone. “You okay there?”

Grantaire grinned at her.

“Honestly, I’m fine. More than fine – I’m. What’s more than fine? Good, great… great! Yeah, I’m great.”

Éponine put her finger at her temple. “I wish you’d stop and realize just how loud you’re being.”

“Nah. I’m not here to realize stuff. I’m here to be America’s Next Top Model.”

“…Okay then. But you are sleeping at mine tonight, got it?”

“Your command is my wish,” Grantaire nodded, gesturing wildly with his hands. “Or- or something along those lines.”

Éponine looked away from Grantaire’s face as though she was on The Office, and let out a deep sigh.

“God, I really don’t want to have kids.”

Grantaire laughed.

**

It got relatively worse after that. The bar was emptying out now, leaving only a few people, Grantaire included. Éponine was getting ready to close the place up, and ordered Grantaire to stay put in his seat, like he was a 5-year-old, and every time he as much as moved an inch, he was rewarded with a very stern stare.

“Uh-uh. Right where you are, Grantaire.”

“But I have to go to the bathroom!”

“Okay. You only get a minute though, so you better make it quick, friend.”

“Jesus,” Grantaire muttered, getting up and making a beeline towards the men’s room. He was relieved to find it empty, and as soon as he closed the door, he sank slowly down onto the wet and dirty floor. He stared, unfocused, at a partly ripped-off poster advertising some stand-up show from over a year ago, and felt his eyes fill with tears.

“Fuck.” Grantaire let out a sharp breath, rubbing his face with his hands. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

There it was then, the next stage of being crazy drunk: the uncontrollable weeping that poured out of him every single time things got out of hand. It was truly pathetic.

“Whatever,” he murmured to no one in particular. “Whatever. The love of my life is dead. I _get_ to be the pathetic drunk in the men’s room. I’ve fucking _earned_ it or whatever.”

_Just let it out_ , people would say when someone had to cry, _just let it out_. Grantaire had always thought it was the most ridiculous thing to say to somebody. Letting something out presumes that that something was only temporarily inside of you, and would leave, never to return, the moment the tears stopped.

Crying was not like that, Grantaire thought. The tears were always there, a small sea inside of him, and when he cried, he only ever went deeper inside himself.

Considering all this, it definitely came as a surprise to Grantaire to see his tears turn black and turn into smoke, forming a strange, hazy cloud in front of him. He gasped, backing away, rubbing his eyes to see if he was hallucinating or not.

And then, honest to God, the shapeless cloud began to fucking speak.

“ _Greetings, Grantaire_ ,” it hissed, something soft and rich about the unearthly voice. Grantaire stared at the ceiling, gaping in disbelief.

“Jesus fuck. I’m crazy. Jesus fucking Christ, I went fucking _insane_. I cannot _believe_ this, holy shit.”

_“You are not insane. I am as real as you are, but each existence is different.”_

“Who the fuck are you?”

_“I am what is inside.”_

“Oh great, that clears _nothing_ up.”

_“I am called a spirit of the dead-_

“Holy _fuck_!”

_“-and I come to grant your wish.”_

“My-what? I didn’t wish for anything,” Grantaire exclaimed, the world less and less clear around him.

_“I have seen your heart and now it is mine. I shall make its substance come true.”_

Grantaire was convinced at this point that he was imagining all of this, and he fell, headfirst on the floor.

“Oh my God,” he laughed to himself, drawing circles on the tiles with his index finger. “This is so _stupid_. Enjolras would _not_ approve.”

All the while, the spirit continued.

_“You have loved and you have lost, as many mortals do. But you have awoken me in the place where I have slept for a thousand years, and in return, I shall bring the one you love back to you.”_

Grantaire stared at the spirit, lips curling in ferocious anger.

“Don’t you fucking dare talk about him! Don’t talk about him like that, like, like he’s a toy for you to play around with. Or, you know what? You don’t get to talk about him at all, shut up.”

_“He is your reward-”_

“Shut up shut up shut up-”

_“He shall be given back to you come dawn-”_

“I said shut the fuck up-”

_“- I do, however, have one warning to go with my gift. You must guard your love in his new existence, you must be at his side and make sure he does not encounter me, the spirit of the dead ever again-”_

“I can’t hear you,” Grantaire said in a sing song voice, covering his ears.

_“- for I have no habit of giving back what I have already given once. Once lost again, he shall be lost to you forever, and you, Grantaire, shall walk this earth unsatisfied until the end of your days.”_

“Joke’s on you,” Grantaire snorted, “I have walked this earth unsatisfied since day one, get with the program.”

_“My word is the word of truth. Come dawn, you shall have your love once more. Farewell, Grantaire.”_

“Oh my God, would you _please_ just stop fucking talking.”

At that, as if on command, the cloud of blackness evaporated with a rush of wind flowing through the bar’s bathroom, leaving Grantaire, still lying on the floor, completely alone.

Grantaire looked up at the blinking neon lights, and took a moment to appreciate how ironic and, frankly, fucking sad this whole situation was, then proceeded to be swallowed by a different kind of darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a game: spot the line I have totally stolen from the Harry Potter books. God, I am so cheap.  
> I hereby dedicate this chapter to headbangingsappho on Tumblr for being supportive and just altogether an illustrious human.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many happy (?) returns.

When Grantaire came to the next morning, he needed a solid five minutes to figure out where he was. The room and the bed he’d been tucked into felt strange to him, but not completely unfamiliar, which meant that Éponine somehow managed to drag him home with her last night.

Grantaire tried to gingerly sit up in the bed, running a hand through his hair. His head throbbed, and every part of his body ached with a slow but strong fire, the terrible hangover being the only remain of last night’s shenanigans.

He had no idea what time of day it was, but Éponine was probably awake by now, given what an early bird she was for a bartender working nights. In the air, Grantaire could smell the scent of coffee and heard the muffled sounds of the radio from the kitchen.

Éponine was standing with her back to him when he entered the kitchen, busy cooking eggs on the stove. Her tiny frame appeared positively fairy-like as she stood there, the morning sun bathing her in its light, her dark hair up in a messy bun.

“I have the worst back pain, if you want to know,” she said, turning around to face him. “From carrying you home.”

“You know me, Éponine. Destroying lives, one person at a time,” Grantaire said, making his way to Éponine’s old dining table and sitting down at it.

A shadow stole away her features as she put down a plate full of eggs in front of him.

“Stop that. Now eat.”

“ _Yes, sir_.”

“Did I get too much though? Last night?” Grantaire asked after a few minutes of the two of them munching on their breakfast silently. Éponine looked up.

“You don’t remember anything?”

“No,” he replied, burying his face in his hands, “total blackness. Like, blacker than black. You know the new black scientists discovered, that ultimately black color? It’s like that.”

“The ultimate black is the new black,” she joked. “No, uh. It wasn’t all that bad. I mean, you had a lot to drink, too much probably. And then I found you passed out on the bathroom floor.”

“Man, I keep passing out on things.”

“You do somehow make that a habit, yes.”

“Huh.” Grantaire shook his head. “Thanks. For bringing me home. I’m sorry you have to put up with me.”

“Yeah, you suck,” agreed Éponine. “Plus there’s also the fact that you force me to make you breakfast and brush your teeth. Such a tyrant.”

“I _am_ the worst.”

After breakfast, they cozied up on Éponine’s couch, staring at the TV mindlessly.

“I don’t know Debra Messing, but I trust her,” murmured Éponine at the screen. Grantaire could not help but nod along.

**

Once he managed to resemble a person, Grantaire walked home. He lived a few streets away from Éponine, and actually, now that he came to think about it, she could have easily just taken him to his own place – but she wanted to make sure he was fine during the night. Éponine was a fucking angel.

Walking in the door, Grantaire’s hand automatically went to the on switch on the answering machine, which buzzed to life as he took off his shoes.

_You have 32 new messages._

Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks.

“What the-?”

_Grantaire, it’s me, it’s Combeferre, I know it’s late and you’re probably asleep but I had to call you, he was just there and I didn’t know what to do-_

Grantaire stared at the machine, motionless. It was a novelty to have Combeferre call him of course, but it was truly another thing to hear him so disconcerted, his voice hushed and something like utter panic flowing through it.

_-he just sat there in the examination room and they asked me to do a check up on him and I didn’t know- I mean I thought I was seeing things, too much coffee or something of the sort, he was. He looked just like. And he was there, real, breathing, sitting there and just staring at me, Grantaire, I couldn’t breathe- EXCUSE ME I AM TRYING TO MAKE A PHONE CALL HERE-_

Beep.

_Grantaire it’s me again, and I realize that my last message- Grantaire, it’s Enjolras. He’s here, here at the hospital, and he looked at me and he said my name, he was real I swear to everything that we hold true, it’s, it’s_ Enjolras _. He was - they found him wandering about the police station, and he seemed confused and disoriented, and they brought him here, the cops did. He’s here, God, if you could only see him, he is alive, Grantaire-_

Beep.

_-Grantaire have you heard? It’s Courfeyrac, have you heard what happened, did Combeferre-? They found him. They found Enjolras, he’s-_

Beep.

_It’s Joly and Bossuet is here too, R, you have to pick up please, please pick up. Grantaire, he is alive and well, he’s sleeping now--_

Beep _._

_-it’s about 6 am now, I really hope you will listen to our messages soon. Enjolras is-_

_-Enjolras, it’s Enjolras, looks just like before he was- He is here, Grantaire, he’s-_

_-R, you have to-_

_-alive--_

_-you have to come here—_

_-not dead--_

_-come here as soon as--_

_-Grantaire-_

_-Enjolras—_

Beep.  
Beep.  
Beep.

The messages went on and on, one after another, words like a waterfall above Grantaire, flooding him, and there was no making sense of any of them, they just had him surrounded, paralyzed in his kitchen, until he wished to drown in the merciless, cold water, but couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t.

_(Enjolras is dead Enjolras is dead Enjolras is dead Enjolras is dead Enjolras is-)_

**

It was all over the papers, if you want to know what went on in that time.

Young man (25), goes under the name of Enjolras, was found in the suburban area of Paris on 29th August in the early hours of the morning, seemingly confused and afraid. The authorities escorted him to the _Hôpital Américain de Paris_ immediately, where he was examined and admitted for more thorough check up. The young man has been declared dead for over 2 years, but according to the medical staff of the hospital, including close friend A. Combeferre, he is now very much alive. It is not yet known just how his miraculous reappearance came about, or whether the police will be launching an investigation in the matter.

Newspapers all over the world picked up this story, and it became a sensation in no less than 7 hours after occurring. France was full of madness and excited chatter about this mysterious case, but Grantaire had never been calmer. His head was full of soft whiteness.

“You have to go to Paris, Grantaire,” Éponine said the day the news broke. And then the next. And the next. “You have to.”

“Why the fuck would I go there? I hate Paris,” he said, disgusted. Éponine jumped nervously.

“You know why, you asshole. Enjolras-”

“Enjolras is dead, Éponine. You told me yourself.”

“But-”

“No,” Grantaire said, softly but with persistence. “He died two years ago.”

**

The sun was almost blinding, the day Enjolras died.

Spring had not yet come to an end, and yet the first touches of summer could be seen already over the city, reaching through the trees, warming the ground.

Paris, the beautiful Paris, was burning with an unseen fire; it was in their feet as they walked down Saint-Michel, it was in the way birds flew up in the air all at once from the rooftops.

And, most, importantly, it was in Enjolras’ eyes.

“Will you stop bouncing,” Grantaire said, amused. Enjolras shook his head.

“Sorry. I’m just really excited about today. Combeferre said-”

“I know.”

“-that over a thousand people are expected at today’s protest-”

“You’ve told me this already.”

“-a _thousand_ people, Grantaire, can you believe-”

“I really, really can.”

Enjolras leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face. The sun streaming through the window illuminated his features, making him seem less real than he was. The end of spring was becoming of him, suited him like a crown. Enjolras was always most beautiful in the sunlight.

“I’m just excited.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

“Yeah.”

“Nervous about your speech?”

“Not really,” Enjolras shrugged, scratching his left arm. “The others are there to help me out with that. Plus, I mean, I guess I like speaking in front of people, I don’t know if it’s weird or.”

“Oh, it’s definitely weird, Enjolras, have no fear,” Grantaire said fondly. “But that’s just you. A weirdo.”

Enjolras smirked. “You’re living with this weirdo.”

“And sharing his bed, I know.” Grantaire sighed. “A shameful life I lead.”

Enjolras’ laugh sounded delighted.

“I’m glad you’re finally coming to one of these things, by the way,” he said, poking Grantaire with his elbow. “I broke you.”

“Last night, you did just that.”

“Oh my God,” Enjolras whispered, blushing furiously. He looked out the window, the sun blinding him for a moment. “I have something I want to talk to you about, remind me tonight.”

“Okay, what about?”

Enjolras shook his head with a small smile.

“We’ll just talk about it at home, after the protest.”

“Look man, just _say_ you need more time with your PowerPoint presentation, I won’t get mad. I’m expecting it, in fact.”

“I so did _not_ make a PowerPoint presentation,” Enjolras replied, sounding sheepish.

Grantaire chuckled.

“Whatever you say, love.”

**

Éponine spent the train ride to Paris tapping her thighs nervously, bouncing in her seats.

“Will you stop bouncing,” Grantaire said, his voice dry.

“Sorry. You want anything?” she asked him.

Grantaire shook his head, not taking his eyes off his shoes.

“I don’t want to go to Paris.”

“Dude, I asked what you wanted, not what you didn’t want. And, that’s too fucking bad, cause you’re going,” said Éponine fiercely, not noticing the scandalized look a woman with a stroller was sending her.

“There is nothing for me there.”

“Yes there is, there’s all your nerdy friends, and there’s Enjolras.”

“Enjolras is not there.”

“Um, yes, he is, why are you being so difficult about this? Is this about being in shock?”

Grantaire looked up at the ceiling of the train carriage.

“I am not shocked. Life can no longer shock me.”

“That’s just it though,” said Éponine as she took a lock of her hair into her mouth. “You should probably be shocked or some shit. This weird bubble of calm is definitely not normal.”

“Thanks for the diagnosis, now eat your gross ass sandwich.”

“Listen, jerk, we’ll talk about this once we get to Paris, don’t think that we won’t,” Éponine said, half into her sandwich.

Once they got to Paris. Well. Paris was bound to get to Grantaire first – he could feel it now, when they were still on the train, covering every part of his body like something terrible.

_(Paris took Enjolras away.)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre appears, and nobody likes hospitals.

“Stop getting crumbs all over my bed.”

Courfeyrac abruptly stopped chewing, his face not unlike that of a hamster. The early morning light began to kiss the rooftops of Paris, and being on the top floor, Combeferre’s apartment was the first to experience the sweetness of the sun. The light was lazily tangled in Courfeyrac’s curls now as he sat, restless, on Combeferre’s bed, consuming what was supposed to be Combeferre’s breakfast, but fate had other plans.

“Guh, sorry,” Courfeyrac said, hastily brushing away the breadcrumbs, making a mosaic on the floor. Combeferre frowned at the sight.

“I just keep thinking about his place.”

“Whose place?”

“Enjolras’s,” Courfeyrac replied, shaking his head, his voice resigned. “When he wakes up, he’s going to want to go home. But where is that home now? Who is living in it?”

Combeferre let out a sigh, patting Courfeyrac on the shoulder.

“You know that Grantaire wanted to sell, after. That was his decision to make.”

“I mean, I know,” Courfeyrac said, laughter exploding out of him, a laugh that had little humor in it. “Plus, it’s not like we could have expected something- like _this_ to happen.”

Combeferre snorted, looking into nothingness. The last couple of days felt like a montage from an American movie, moments after moments chasing each other, only fragments in his memory as they tried to make sense of it all.

_It’s Enjolras – he’s alive._

Combeferre thought of that first message he left on Grantaire’s machine, that thought that left room for nothing else in his mind, the urge for Grantaire to be the first person he calls, the first person who finds out. He thought about that night shift, that slow pacing, the waiting room almost empty (a good night), of the police coming in, and Enjolras with them. Enjolras, who was dead. But he wasn’t, because he had been standing there, real as ever, and when Combeferre looked out the window he could see the mighty Parisian trees and could hear the sounds of traffic, that endless murmur that never let the city quiet down – Enjolras.

Living.

Standing, like a Parisian tree, never cut down, only growing closer and closer to the skies.

He hadn’t seen Grantaire for almost 2 years, hadn’t talked to him for over 10 months, and yet, when he got the phone in a fervor, he didn’t even have to think about his number, it poured out of him like the words he left on the answering machine.

“It feels like a dream,” Courfeyrac murmured. “A fever dream.”

Combeferre nodded, silent.

“I guess we should probably go see him.”

Combeferre, once again, nodded.

“Are you working tonight?”

“Yes, I do nights this week,” Combeferre replied. He looked at his watch on the night stand. He frowned. “I guess I should probably be sleeping right now, but.”

“Yeah,” said Courfeyrac, with feeling. Sleeping was not something they could even think of doing right now.

“Is your show still-”

“Yeah, I’m still on for tonight,” said Courfeyrac with a wave of his hand. He looked tired, circles permanent under his hazel eyes, face unshaven and lined. Courfeyrac came to the hospital as soon as he got Combeferre’s message, leaving the theatre during intermission.

“Well, you did miss half of that show.”

“Yeah, they were great though. Totally understood – well not really, but you know, they were supportive. And I think Philip was psyched to be able to go on as the lead.”

“Yeah.”

The sun was above the city now, reaching over the blinds of Combeferre’s bedroom and showering everything in its light. They would get ready soon and go to the hospital, to-

-to watch Enjolras sleep?

To watch him disappear, nothing more than a figment of their imagination?

It was like the cruelest game of chance. Combeferre had always hated gambling.

“Do you remember,” asked Courfeyrac, once they were down the street, shielding their eyes from the sun, “-the sun that day? When Enjolras died? It was sunny just like this.”

Combeferre got into the car, fastening his seatbelts. “I could never begin to forget.”

**

“Hello,” said Éponine to the receptionist, clearing her throat. “We are looking for a guy named Combeferre, a med student, or a doctor, or – a resident? Is he here?”

The receptionist sighed. “You need to give me something more to work with, dear. His full name, maybe?”

Éponine stole a glance at Grantaire. “Oh, it’s-”

“R?”

Grantaire shut his eyes closed, not wanting to turn around. If he turned around, if he faced Courfeyrac, then all of this would turn _real_ and this wasn’t, it couldn’t be, it just couldn’t.

“Do you know him,” murmured Éponine, but Courfeyrac was already rushing towards them, grabbing Grantaire and locking him in a fierce embrace.

“Oh my God, Grantaire, you’re here,” shouted Courfeyrac into his sweater, a muffled sound full of emotions Grantaire could not decipher. “I missed you so much, I am so glad you’re here.”

“Uh, hi, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said lamely. Éponine cleared her throat again.

Courfeyrac stopped holding onto Grantaire for dear life, but didn’t move away entirely, his hands were still on the other man’s shoulders. His face, although weary, was animated, his brown eyes focused on Grantaire,

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Grantaire is still processing, please don’t mind him,” Éponine said, frowning at her friend.

Courfeyrac stepped towards Éponine, letting go of Grantaire.

“We haven’t met, I’m Courfeyrac.”

“Éponine,” she said, shaking his hand. “I was the one to bring this one out here.”

“I am so glad you did, you have no idea, it’s so nice to meet you, Éponine,” Courfeyrac exclaimed, seemingly overly enthusiastic about meeting her, but this behavior suited Courfeyrac well and was not at all unlike him, as Grantaire remembered. There was always something dramatic in everything he did, said, or felt, but it always felt real and heartfelt, the _actor_ in Courfeyrac never overshadowing the _person_.

“Where is Combeferre?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes shot to Grantaire’s face, the surprise on his face clear. He took a moment before answering his question.

“Upstairs on the third floor, outside Enjolras’ room,” he said as they started walking towards the elevator, the three of them, Éponine looking intently at Courfeyrac, and Grantaire looking intently at the hospital floor. “Fuck, I just can’t wait for you to see him, R, he looks so well. He looks just like he did before.”

Grantaire knew he was expected to react to that, so he made a sound at the back of his throat, noncommittal.

“Is he still unconscious?” Éponine asked, hands in her pocket. She was worrying her lower lip.

“Yes,” nodded Courfeyrac. “The doctors are optimistic though. I mean, he was conscious when they brought him in, called Combeferre by his name.”

You could tell this piece of information excited Courfeyrac to no end, he licked his lips, looking at the both of them.

“That’s a good sign, right?”

It was almost as if Éponine could tell just how _questionless_ and thoughtless Grantaire was at this very moment, as she kept up the conversation for all their sakes. Later, when he was more like a person, Grantaire would try to feel all the gratitude he wanted to feel for her right now.

“I mean, definitely,” nodded Courfeyrac. “We’ll see what happens.”

The elevator finally arrived on their floor, and they got out quickly, making their way down one of the halls leading into a large waiting room. Grantaire spotted Combeferre on one of the chairs, seeing them coming and getting up fast. Grantaire could feel his heart clench for the very first time since hearing about all of this madness, as Combeferre began to stride towards them.

He was somehow taller than Grantaire remembered, bigger, broader, still exerting that air of reassurance he always used to. That calm, sure face he had in his mind was now opened up; something quite frantic stealing over his features.

He met them halfway, adjusting his glasses, staring at Grantaire.

They looked at each for a moment, two people who were only boys when they met and now were men, in a situation unsure and unfamiliar for the both of them.

They were never best friends, Combeferre and him, Grantaire mused, but they were the two people closest to Enjolras, and that connected them in different ways. They knew Enjolras best, they looked out for him and looked after him, when he was sick, when he was hurt, when he was overloading himself.

They were the ones who were with him that day, when the sun shone like a brilliant and mighty thing over them, uncaring of what went down below.

_(Who brings a gun to a peaceful protest?)_

“He woke up,” Combeferre said all of a sudden, never taking his eyes off Grantaire. The air froze, or maybe it was only Grantaire, because Courfeyrac next to him began to murmur excitedly

“Oh God. Oh my God. He woke up? Can we see him? Can Grantaire talk to him?”

Grantaire stood there, motionless, and he could feel Éponine and Combeferre both looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer. To say something. To scream.

Grantaire said nothing, not now, not just yet.

Combeferre frowned, his eyes focused. There were patches all over his glasses.

“Maybe not just yet, I mean, I think we should talk to a doctor first. I only spoke to a nurse before; she went to get someone to look at him thoroughly.”

“I thought _you_ were a doctor,” spoke Éponine.

Combeferre looked at her, surprised.

“I’m only doing my residency here, I- I’m not- sorry, who are you?”

“I’m Éponine, Grantaire’s friend.”

Understanding dawned on Combeferre’s face.

“Oh, right. Yes. So I’m not a doctor yet, and Enjolras is not my patient, the medical chief officer took him up, they thought it best, considering, well, everything.”

_Everything._

“Right, the whole thing with the media,” nodded Éponine, and Grantaire frowned, looking up from the ground, staring at their friends’ faces. He’d thought, he’d been sure, that they would be talking about this, what was really going on. He’d thought Combeferre would tell him the truth, would tell him like it was – that this was all a mistake, this was completely impossible, this was madness.

“Yes, that too,” Courfeyrac said. He let out a breathy laugh. “This is not the kind of attention Enjolras would have wanted, he’s going to be furious.”

_Enjolras._

“That’s not him though,” Grantaire whispered, his first words since they’d come up here. There was a storm inside his voice, something dangerous he could not put his finger on himself.

Courfeyrac looked stricken, eyes wide.

“Grantaire-”

“ _No_.” There was a force behind this word, a force Grantaire hadn’t known he possessed. He thought he came to Paris calm and empty, and now it turned out all the anger he had ever felt was in his mouth. He carried it all here.

“No, I refuse to, to, _go in there_ , and make myself believe that this is real, like this is some kind of a _miracle_ , I just, won’t, okay? I won’t.”

Éponine tried to touch his arm, attempting to soothe him, and Grantaire realized he had started crying, tears he always kept inside rushing out of him, forcing their way out. It must have been a fucking ugly sight to behold.

“The one thing, _the one fucking thing_ all of this has taught me is that there are no fucking miracles, only funerals, and you all know it, please just stop lying, plea-he-se,” Grantaire said, brushing his tears away from his eyes. He could barely see, but he knew how all three of them must have been looking at him, and when he blinked, he could make out Combeferre staring at him, wide eyed, a pained expression on his face like he had been shaken to the core.

“Fuck,” Grantaire sobbed. He took a step towards Combeferre, taking him by the shoulder, pulling him close.

He begged, pleaded, for him to understand, to say what was real.

“ _Combeferre_ ,” he breathed, “Combeferre, my friend. You know this. Tell me. We saw him die. We buried him. He is in the _ground_.”

Combeferre shut his eyes tight, and when he let out a breath, Grantaire could feel it on his cheeks.

When he spoke, his voice was death.

“He was in the ground. Now he is not.”

Grantaire grabbed Combeferre’s face, his grip tight.

“ _How?”_

“I don’t know,” Combeferre said, looking upwards, his eyes red. “ _I don’t know.”_

Combeferre was crying. At first, he merely sniffled, tears streaming down his cheeks, but soon enough his shoulders shook and raw sobs clawed their way out of his throat. He hid his face in his hands and screamed, in pain, in relief, in frustration, in joy, and in regret.

And, in that busy hospital, the waiting room murmur a thrum in their ears, Grantaire held on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be studying for my finals, but alas.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun was almost blinding, the day Enjolras died.

The sun was almost blinding, the day Enjolras died.

Spring had not yet come to an end, and a crooked little alleyway was packed with far too much sound.

“Ssshhh, it’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

“Grantaire you need to press this down, press hard.”

Grantaire couldn’t hear Combeferre, but his hands somehow found their way to Enjolras’ stomach, soaking his hands in blood.

He hadn’t known there could be so many colors in someone bleeding out. Enjolras lay there, barely conscious, his head covered in cold sweat and his eyes fixed on Grantaire, and his _stomach_ – his body was opening up from the inside, all the passion, all the anger, all the love pouring out of him, all red, crimson, purple and something sickeningly black.

He hadn’t even seen Enjolras bleed before, not a scrape of the elbow, not a paper cut, nothing, and all of it came rushing out just for him to see now, and something about all the colors, dark and darker still, made Grantaire see the scene through a painter’s eyes, how all of it contrasted with the graffiti on the yellow wall behind them, how the ground was dirty yet Enjolras was lying on it, helpless, his hands clutching the leaves of grass growing out of the uneven pavement.

The streets were silent now, yet not 10 minutes ago they were loud with life, people talking, their voices a white noise in Grantaire’s head. Enjolras, standing above them all, so tall and light and beautiful, his words like lightning, and then Enjolras, falling, falling, accompanied by a wretched sound Grantaire would keep hearing for the rest of his life.

Grantaire felt paralyzed.

They were kneeling right next to Enjolras, their bodies heavy on the ground, Combeferre clutching him and applying pressure to wounds, tearing his own shirt up to make bandage for him, his glasses dirty and bloody, his dark skin glistening with sweat. And Grantaire, next to them, but somehow farther and farther away, holding onto Enjolras with both hands and yet flying away from him by the second, his mind made out of shouts of disbelief, and _this can’t be happening_ s.

Enjolras let out a weak groan, gripping Grantaire’s hand.

“R,” he moaned. “Grant—aire.”

“Enjolras, try not to speak,” said Combeferre automatically, his voice soft yet commanding, his eyes still on the wound.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire heard himself say, voice hoarse, “Enjolras. It’s going to be – you’re going to be fine.”

Grantaire felt ashamed, just saying that, disgusted by how empty the words and the way he said them sounded, nothing meant nothing nothing nothing nothing.

Enjolras made a pained sound, coming from the back of his throat.

Grantaire looked very hard at Enjolras now, his eyes barely seeing, barely comprehending. Why couldn’t he be present, why couldn’t he be right here with Enjolras, he didn’t want to go, he wanted to stay right here, to really _see_ Enjolras, to say something to him that mattered.

“You can’t die here,” he said instead. “You’re not going to, because this is Rue de Bonaparte, and you hate Napoleon, right? And… you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.”

Enjolras laughed, or at least, made a sound full of spasms that sounded like someone drowning in cruel waters.

“I, really. I don’t,” Enjolras said, his breathing harsh and ragged, all and every color fading from his beautiful face now, and arriving at Grantaire’s feet, like a river.

The sound of sirens cut out the aching silence, and Combeferre let out a shriek.

“God,” he bit out, “they’re coming, you hear that, Enjolras? It’s going to be fine now, you’re going to be okay.”

Grantaire couldn’t look at Combeferre.

Enjolras hummed, his breathing slowing down, his grip on Grantaire’s hand weakening, and _no._

“I really hate this street,” he murmured, his blue eyes reflecting the empty sky above them. His gaze found Grantaire’s, and a small smile appeared on Enjolras’ face. “But you’re so beautiful. I’m glad you came to see us.”

Somehow, Grantaire thought, he looked almost _triumphant._

(Who brings a gun to a peaceful protest?)

The sound of sirens grew louder and louder still.

Grantaire was still holding his hand.

**

“Hey.”

Grantaire looked up, the too bright neon lights hurting his eyes. He winced. It was Cosette, his little Cosette, only more grown up looking, her cheekbones sharper, her body less fragile. Her huge, kind grey eyes were fixed on him, observing, guarding, and for some reason Grantaire instantly felt better, like a great weight had been lifted from his very chest.

He looked down, breathing out like a laughter. Like relief.

“Heeey, Cosette, uh,” he muttered, blinking rapidly. “Hi.”

“Oh good grief,” Cosette said, collapsing on the chair next to him, taking him by the hand, her body pressed close to his. “Grantaire. My God.”

“Yeah.”

“I missed you so much,” she said, bringing him into a half-hug that should have been awkward, but Cosette had the unnerving ability to make it non-awkward, holding on with stubborn fervor, her blonde curls ticklish on Grantaire’s neck.

And yes. Grantaire had missed her too, what the hell. He maybe didn’t really notice until right this second?

“You too,” he whispered back, awkwardly, because the unnerving ability Grantaire had was making everything awkward, even the things that shouldn’t have been. Cosette untangled herself, taking a good look at Grantaire.

“We just got here, I was at work, and then Courfeyrac called with the news. We have been coming here every day.”

Grantaire nodded, waiting for her to bring him up, to say his name, terrified of it. But Cosette, amazingly, did not do any of that – she had never been one to do what was expected, she was living with a gay lawyer couple, after all.

“I just met, um, Éponine,” she said. “She seems a dream.”

“Hmm. Yeah, she picks me up when I’m down and all that.”

“That’s great,” Cosette replied, her voice heavy with feeling. “That’s so great, that you have someone to take care of you. Plus, her winged eyeliner is _amazing.”_

Grantaire laughed, “She’d be really happy to hear you say that.”

Cosette nodded. “Maybe I’ll tell her later.”

They sat there next to each other for a few minutes, silence stretching deliciously between them, and Grantaire felt raw – maybe it was because of crying with Combeferre, or maybe it was the fact that Cosette came here to sit next to him like the last two years hadn’t happened, and she somehow saw that he couldn’t talk about Enjolras the way Courfeyrac did, so easily and like everything was coming back to normal now, like they could just erase a part of their lives. The quietness Cosette had brought with herself filled Grantaire in all the right places, and it helped, not being expected to be happy, to be excited, to say all the right things to all the right people, because fuck, none of this was right.

It was really fucking cruel and inside out, and Grantaire wasn’t strong enough for this.

“I don’t want to go in there, Cosette.”

Cosette nodded once, a frown on her face.

“I know, baby.”

“Coffee?” Combeferre asked, appearing in front of them suddenly, his tall figure a fixed point in the vastness of the waiting room. Grantaire stared at him; Combeferre’s eyes were still red, just like his own probably were.

He reached out a hand, unsteady, and Combeferre gave him one of the cups he’d been holding, smiling a smile that was hardly there. They shared a long look, and it was like they knew everything there was to know about each other in that moment, like their old roles in a life long gone was coming back to the living again – the one who settled all things and the one who was just unsettled, and Enjolras was a gaping hole between the two of them.

“So,” Cosette broke the silence, like dust coming up to the air once again, “he is awake.”

“Yes,” answered Combeferre, his voice uncertain as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “Yes. Doctor Michel had already been to see him, he’s, conscious, steady. Seems healthy. Amazing results, really.”

_Considering everything._

“Good. Good.”

Combeferre opened his mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it again. He stole a nervous glance at Grantaire, almost as if on instinct, like he couldn’t help it. Grantaire made a fist on his knees.

“There is however something else,” continued Combeferre finally. “He – Enjolras – he seems to have difficulty recalling certain events.”

(Enjolras is dead.)

Cosette made a sound of shock. “Like what?”

“Like,” went on Combeferre, closing his eyes momentarily. “Like details of his life. Some small, some… big.”

(Paris took Enjolras away.)

Combeferre was staring straight at him now, and Grantaire smiled, mocking and resigned, a feeling of sureness washing over him in that moment, because of course it was going to be this way, of course he knew exactly what Combeferre was going to say, _of course_ he could never fully have anything for himself. Everything was going away from him, in bits and pieces.

“Grantaire, I am so sorry,” Combeferre whispered. “Enjolras, he – right now, he doesn’t remember you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Hanukkah, or whatever it is you guys celebrate! Hope it's a good one.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire finally faces Enjolras. The drama continues.

Enjolras frowned.

“Grantaire, you can’t _smoke_ in here,” he hissed, the words clawing out of his throat.

Grantaire grinned, the match in his hand in a flame, burning down, down, down.

“Maybe _you_ can’t,” he said, his voice full of malicious enjoyment. “I certainly will.”

Jehan frowned into his tea mug. “I feel like this was the general you.”

Courfeyrac sniggered, “Ah, The General You. My favorite 80’s band.”

Enjolras was fuming, and Grantaire was burning up with it, thrills running down his spine. Seeing Enjolras’ face distort in frustration, hearing him groan and scowl made him feel ridiculously powerful, something he could easily get drunk on. Enjolras was all fire all the time, but only he, Grantaire could make him go like that in a matter of seconds, easy as dragging a match along the side of the box – lo and behold, flames.

Their first date had been – a disaster, to say the least. And maybe it wasn’t completely Grantaire’s fault, maybe it had something to do with the fact that Enjolras caught him utterly off guard. Asking him out had been a whim, it was getting caught up in the moment and liking the curl of Enjolras’ mouth and the roll of his eyes. Seeing him on his doorstep the next evening however, beholding his nervousness, his grace, the halo of a hair framing his face made Grantaire freak the fuck out.

He looked so real standing there, looking at Grantaire expectantly and a little hopefully, and Grantaire was not prepared for it to feel like a punch in the gut.

_You’re going to fuck this up so hard_ , a voice inside him kept saying in tones he couldn’t block, couldn’t ignore, and so Grantaire activated his defense mechanism. Meaning, from that moment onward, he tried to be a complete dick towards Enjolras, and, well, he was doing a damn fine job.

It was a solid plan, really, you just had to think really hard – there was no way Grantaire was going to do the whole dating Enjolras thing right, and Enjolras was bound to get bored of him after like 15 seconds of being in the same room with him, and what the hell had Grantaire been thinking, asking him out like that? You didn’t give yourself over to the enemy like that.

This was clearly the right move, Enjolras would have figured out how sad Grantaire was and how bedtime made him afraid, how he didn’t like bananas and how his feet got freakishly cold at night, and Grantaire could not handle someone seeing so much of him.

Especially someone as beautiful and terrifying as Enjolras. Grantaire stared at him unabashed now, still smoking his cigarette. Enjolras was writing on a white napkin, taking notes, making up strategies. He put the tip of the pencil in his mouth, tilting his head, deep in thought, and good lord, was he the most wonderful thing Grantaire had ever seen in his life.

Well, one might have said that _maybe_ he should have calculated in the fact that he was still falling headfirst for Enjolras no matter what a jerk he was being, so there was that.

Enjolras looked at him, narrowing his eyes, and Grantaire’s heart skipped a beat.

He smirked at the blond.

Self-sabotage at its best.

**

“I am _definitely_ not going in there.”

Joly and Courfeyrac shared a look. They were all standing there now, gathered around outside Enjolras’ room, the old gang, like in that horrible Scooby Doo movie where they hadn’t met for years and ran into each other at the airport. Familiar yet unknown.

Jehan put a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, and when he spoke, his voice was even and very quiet.

“Grantaire, we know how incredibly hard this must be for you. We do. This whole situation is, well, impossible, and. None of us know what to do or how to react.”

“Listen R, you’re going to have to face him eventually,” Bossuet said, shrugging his shoulder helplessly. Grantaire tried to even out his breathing, but knew that there was another storm coming, and it was going to destroy everything.

“I think it’s the fact that you’ve built this up in your head, and now it seems too much,” Courfeyrac said.

“Maybe think of it like ripping off a Band-Aid? suggested Éponine, worrying her lip. “Fast and easy.”

Grantaire really tried to find humor in this situation, but very understandably couldn’t. Just like ripping off a Band-Aid, he thought. Sure, if under the Band-Aid was everything he had ever loved and lost, coming back to haunt him.

“You can do this,” Combeferre said to him, breathing in. “ _We_ can do this.”

Bahorel was the one to open the door, and they all walked in, one by one, almost like they were on a bizarre class trip. Inside, it was all incredibly white, suspiciously clean for a hospital, which was why Grantaire suspected Combeferre had done some extra cleaning just to make it more comfortable.

In the doorway, he stopped, and just couldn’t make himself go any further. His head was suddenly filled with an eerie mantra, something he thought he could remember, but didn’t know where he might have heard it.

_I have seen your heart, and now it is mine_ , the voice said, crashing into his mind, a thought that was not his own forcing itself on him. His hand flew to his temple, pain in every part of his body.

He saw him, a figure sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at each and every one of them warily. His hair a dirty blond color, untamable curls, his profile almost Greek, his mouth aristocratic, and his eyes-

Grantaire pierced his lips. His anger came out of nowhere and was now raging inside of him, fighting to get out, to shout, to destroy.

When this Apollo-like figure looked at him, Grantaire felt like he had been defeated in a war he had been fighting for a hundred years.

“Hello,” he said, and he had Enjolras’ _voice_ , his face, his eyes, and Grantaire wanted to cry out in pain.

Apollo was sitting there with everything he had stolen from Enjolras, and Grantaire was supposed to take it, he was supposed to be _happy_ about it.

Grantaire smirked, wishing he had a cigarette. “Hi.”

Combeferre, who was the master of every situation, looked nonplussed. He gestured between the two of them.

“Enjolras, this is- Grantaire. Do you- remember him?”

_Enjolras_ was still looking at Grantaire, like he was trying to find something but couldn’t.

He licked his lips, and Grantaire felt cheated.

“No, I. No.”

Grantaire broke his gaze, searching for air in this tiny hospital room and finding none. He looked at the rest of them, all staring back at him, and he smiled a soft smile.

“Are you guys happy now? The Band-Aid is off. _Feels great_.”

He heard _Enjolras_ say ‘What’s wrong?’ and then Grantaire was far, far away, where no one could see him, hear him, feel him, or God forbid, look at him with the eyes of someone he used to love.

**

_Enjolras is dead_ , Éponine had said to him, _and he is not going to come back._

Grantaire was shaking, back against the wall and a thousand little tremors crushing over his body, like waves pulsating from the ocean, rocking it, changing it, making it new. He didn’t know what he would transform into once the shaking stopped, what he knew was this: things were never given back to you. They were taken away and you were left there, like the daylight was left with the darkness, or like a mugger leaving you in the middle of the night as you slowly bled out, not having enough of a voice to scream.

He rubbed his face, scratching his skin, leaving tiny lines of red and soreness – this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be, it was a mistake, a cruel joke played on him by all the cosmos. What day was it? Was it the day the sun was almost blinding-? When he walked in that café with Joly for the first time? Or when they kneeled in that alley with _him_ lying in front of them?

_You’re so beautiful, I’m glad you came to see us._

Enjolras was dead. How could anyone not understand this? He ended, went away and took the best of Grantaire with him, cruel and merciless like an avenging angel. And now, what? Was he supposed to look this vision in the eye and call him by Enjolras’s name, knowing that he, Grantaire was still incomplete, still ruined?

Grantaire felt mighty, standing there outside the hospital, people passing him by and not even looking. He felt all the multitudes inside himself, legs that trapped miles, fields that looked up at faraway stars, houses that were emptied out. His shoulders were heavy and sore with life, but the stomach was the most monstrous of all, for it kept a hunger inside itself no living soul could muster, a hunger that came involuntarily, and stayed and stayed and grew inside Grantaire ever since he’d listened to that message Combeferre had left on his answering machine.

His hunger was for Enjolras, for everything that he was or had been, the voice, the eyes crinkling with frustration or laughter, the easiness that would fall over him at times, the way he filled every single room he walked in, the way Grantaire could never look away from him.

Enjolras was dead, he burst just when he was closest to the bright sun, Grantaire knew it, Grantaire had seen it, and yet, some terrible monster in his mind kept chanting, pleading something he wanted to ignore so bad: _could I really have this?_

Grantaire’s gaze had always been fixated on Enjolras, and, just now, he couldn’t even look this someone in the eye. It was never like this, not even in the early days. Back when Enjolras scoffed, Enjolras hissed, shouted, but Enjolras _knew._

_Do you remember him?_

_No._

No.

No.

No.

Grantaire tried to breathe, tried to muster it, the way his mother had taught him when he was little, touching his stomach. _You keep pressure here_ , she had said. _This is where you collect all the air, always._

This was not real. None of it was, and he could hardly believe the others, his friends, who were so quick and eager to believe that things like this actually happened, when they _didn’_ t and that was that. They had loved Enjolras and they had buried him, and Grantaire was not going to taint his memory by wanting to replace him with someone who copied parts of him.

He was aware of every flutter of his body, and Grantaire looked up at the sky, wondering how it was that someone hated him enough to punish him like this, to test him, to see if he believed the façade, and then laugh if they had him fooled.

Grantaire was having none of it, he wouldn’t. He was going to be strong, for Enjolras (the _real_ Enjolras), and for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm home sick and this is my sole way to spend the time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire tries to make a decision. Combeferre briefly takes the spotlight.

It was winter now, and Grantaire was in love with Enjolras.

It wasn’t going to go away, it wasn’t going to crumble; quite the opposite, it was something great and mighty inside of him, building and building and always having more space to grow.

He was sitting at the passenger seat in Enjolras’ car now, his seatbelt cutting into his neck uncomfortably, the snow outside grey and icy. His feet were damp, his lousy shoes soaking his socks now, but Grantaire felt warm because he was staring at Enjolras, who was always light and heat.

“I hate this traffic,” Enjolras said with a sigh, his hands tapping the wheel. Grantaire felt destroyed sitting there next to him, looking at Enjolras, his face, his tired eyes, his red coat slithered to the side, showing his neck.

Grantaire felt especially betrayed by that damn coat.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It was getting harder these days to spite Enjolras, to contradict his every word, or even to look at him and pretend it was for mocking. He was helpless, so so weak just sitting here in this car with Enjolras, in a line of vehicles stuck.

Which was to say, he knew that gazing at Enjolras with utter admiration wasn’t going to do him any favors either, but who was he, Grantaire, to fight any of this? He was not a strong person to begin with.

“Yeah, it sucks,” he replied belatedly, his voice hoarse. Enjolras glanced at him.

“What, no ‘I told you so’? No ‘if humanity isn’t strong enough to manage traffic then it isn’t strong enough to better itself’?”

Grantaire frowned.

“…No. And, by the way, your words, not mine.”

Enjolras shook his head, chuckling like he couldn’t help it. It was so cold in the car that Grantaire could see Enjolras’ breath. It was beautiful.

“You really must be tired,” Enjolras said. “I’m surprised you accepted my offer for a ride.”

“Well, to be fair, this isn’t that much of a ride. We’re mostly just standing.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras responded, still smiling, and wow, this must be the end of the world if Grantaire could make him do that so easily.

“But really,” Enjolras continued. “what if I said something about the separation of the church and the state? You’ll have to argue with me then, and where would we be?”

“You want me to argue with you about the separation of church and state?” Grantaire asked, raising an eyebrow.

Enjolras looked sheepish. “No. But it’s weird that _you_ _don’t_ want to argue. Isn’t that the only reason you can stand being in the same room with me?”

Grantaire gaped at him.

“ _That’s_ what you think?”

Enjolras shrugged.

“I mean, of course I realize that you don’t like me very much, I’m not stupid-”

“You think I don’t _like_ you?”

“Well… isn’t that the case?”

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh, a roaring and desperate sound filling the small car.

“Oh my God,” he said, gasping for air, “Enjolras. Jesus.”

“What,” Enjolras asked, sounding confused, “why are you laughing?”

“Because,” Grantaire said, almost sobbing from all the laughter now, “because this is truly hilarious. And also because I’m pathetic.”

“Grantaire-”

“Enjolras. Buddy. You’re such an incredibly smart person-”

“ _What.”_

“- _how_ have you not figured this out by now? I mean, I literally asked you out the first time we met-”

“But, but you made fun of me the whole time, you were so mean like you couldn’t stand me!”

Grantaire sobered up, pursing his lips.

“Well, I guess you could say I slightly panicked. Or I guess you could say it was my misguided attempt at flirting with you.”

Enjolras let out a harsh breath, opening his mouth to speak, and then closing it again. The cars ahead still made no sign of moving any time soon, so Grantaire was trapped with Enjolras, his suddenly declared feelings between the two of them, and wow. He did not see this coming when he woke up this morning.

Enjolras breathed in.

“But I thought you hated me,” he said, almost accusingly, and Grantaire was so very tired, and so strangely relieved to be able to tell the truth.

“Enjolras,” he said, his voice soft, “no.”

He was looking at Enjolras and Enjolras was staring right back, something unreadable in his expression, a flurry of emotions displayed on his face.

He leaned slightly forward, and said, “All this time-”

“All this time,” Grantaire agreed, because what the hell.

Enjolras was blinking rapidly, glancing away. He adjusted in his seat, his mouth open.

“Grantaire,” he said, looking at the road.

Grantaire swallowed. “Yes?”

“Are you, uh, a way to block water,” Enjolras said, his expression controlled in a way that suggested he was trying not to smile. Grantaire’s heart set in motion, beating almost painfully in his chest.

“Oh. Why – why do you ask?”

Enjolras looked up to meet his gaze, his eyes a brilliant blue.

“Because _damn_.”

**

“I’m going in there,” Grantaire said loudly to the people standing outside Enjolras’ room, his chest still heaving from rushing up the stairs to get here, his voice still rugged.

Jehan and Courfeyrac were the first to reach out their hands towards him, and Cosette’s eyes got so wide it was fearful they would pop. Combeferre was looking at Grantaire, his face calm like a river cutting a forest in half.

None of them tried to stop him, per se, but it was clear they were standing some sort of guard outside the room, with Bahorel actually having his hands locked in front of himself.

“R-”

“Are you sure-”

“You don’t have to-”

Grantaire searched for Éponine among them. She was staring at him, her eyes a sweet brown.

“Éponine,” he said. “I am going in there.”

Éponine nodded her head, quite solemn in her movements.

“Okay,” she said, and this was why she was his best friend. Her eyes said to him, _don’t let it hurt you_. His own eyes said back, _this is not real. It couldn’t hurt me._

The door creaked as he walked in the room this time, making Enjolras look up. He looked wary, uncertain, and oh boy should he join the club.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said to him, and holy shit, maybe Grantaire should walk right out that door, he’d actually forgotten how much like Enjolras he sounded, even though it had only been fifteen minutes, tops.

“Yes?”

“Oh,” he said, embarrassed, “I was just- sort of just practicing your name.”

Fuck.

“Okay,” Grantaire said, still standing there in the doorway. Enjolras looked up at him again, that searching expression on his face once again present, like Grantaire was a riddle. Grantaire would have loved to say that this expression was unlike the Enjolras he’d known, but he would have been lying.

“So, we know each other, then?” Enjolras said, nodding towards the door, as if to suggest that somebody, Combeferre or Courfeyrac, had told him about Grantaire.

Fuck it all to hell.

“You could say that. I mean, yeah. Yes.” _No. I don’t know_ you.

“I’m so sorry, but I really don’t remember you,” Enjolras said, like a confession. “It’s a really uneasy feeling.”

“No wonder you associate it with me then,” Grantaire said, an automatic response. Even he was surprised to have said that, to have behaved like this was the Enjolras he used to mock and argue with, and not the Enjolras he loved dearly, or the fake Enjolras that he actually was.

The blond’s eyes flickered at that.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“How do we know each other? Tell me.”

He said it like it was a command, it made Grantaire’s hand shake again.

“We, uh. I was also part of your group, technically.”

“Mm,” Enjolras hummed, a frown on his face. Then, as though something had just occurred to him, he looked up at Grantaire. “’Was’?”

“What?”

“You said you _were_ part of the group. Are you not anymore?”

Jesus. Grantaire was getting burned over language and grammar. Neat.

“Oh, well, it’s not really in function anymore.”

The other man’s face went wild at that, his mouth opening, his eyes widening, and Grantaire wished he could be unaffected by what he was seeing.

“Grantaire, what happened to me? No one is telling me, not the doctors, not the others, I. Did I have an accident?”

(Who brings a gun to a peaceful protest?)

Grantaire grimaced. “I’m really not the person to be answering this question, if, if the doctors don’t want to tell you, then-”

“Was it bad,” Enjolras kept asking, his face fierce and serious, and Grantaire just wanted this to end so he could go home and cry himself to sleep. “Was I in a coma?”

_A coma._

(We buried him.)

“Fuck,” Grantaire said, now understanding why the others didn’t want him to come here a second time. “Yes, it was bad. I’m seriously _, seriously_ not going to tell you what it was though.”

“But I’m okay now,” Enjolras protested. “Why would it hurt to know?”

 _Because you’re okay now_ , something in Grantaire said, and he wanted to fight it down, wanted to make it disappear. This wasn’t real. This was not real, it wasn’t real.

But this person was looking at him and it was like the way Enjolras did sometimes, and Grantaire felt something like pity, a new emotion among all the anger and the fear.

Because he was lying here in this hospital bed in the body of someone gone, with the memories of someone gone, and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t his fault? Grantaire was struggling with his confusions.

Grantaire hated everything, especially himself, in this very moment.

“Listen man,” he spoke, fighting to keep his voice neutrally friendly, to pretend that he was speaking to a complete stranger. “We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, okay?”

That cliché somehow seemed to work, because the other man, Enjolras, looked up at Grantaire with a small smile on his face. And yes, it hurt like nothing he had ever known, but maybe if he pretended that this man was only a namesake of Enjolras’s? A namesake with his face, with his voice…

He wanted it to be over.

“Okay,” Enjolras said. “Jehan mentioned you were an artist?”

He narrowed his eyes.  _Jehan, the traitor._

“Yeah, I don’t, um, I don’t really do that anymore. Paint, draw, that stuff.”

“Why not? Did something happen?”

(Paris took Enjolras away.)

“Something happened alright.”

**

“I’m like 75% sure this whole situation won’t explode on us,” Éponine said one morning after they herded Courfeyrac’s kitchen, taking temporary shelter in his apartment. Courfeyrac’s place was full of flashy, impractical furniture and expensive looking posters of musicals, and his kitchen was small and unused according to Éponine, who always noticed these things.

They were sitting there now, she at the table, a cup of steaming tea in her hand, and Grantaire on top of the shiny marble counter, leaning back against one of cupboards, his head thrown back. It was a well-practiced motion whose whole purpose was to seem lazy-looking and easy, something Grantaire had to master in the last couple of years of pretending to be alive.

Courfeyrac was in the shower still, and Combeferre was typing away furiously in the living room, making the kitchen a momentary private place for the two of them. It was really entirely too nice of Courfeyrac to let him and Éponine crash at his apartment, especially since he and Grantaire had been incredibly out of touch – but it was also something that had Courfeyrac written all over it, he was all warmth, that guy, a social butterfly, who was happy to do something nice at any given time and gave away smiles like they didn’t cost him anything. Which, technically, they didn't.

“You mean the apartment? Yeah, I kind of think it’s too much as well. I mean, that big pink Legally Blonde poster is just downright unstable.”

Éponine gave him a hard look.

“No. Not the apartment, there is no accounting for taste. I’m talking about- you know what I’m talking about.”

He really did- and he wished he really, really didn’t. Grantaire still felt like he was in some sort of crazy fever dream, like something was falling down on him at all times and he had no place to duck, to lean away, he just watched that something fall, and fall, and fall, never crashing, always arriving, always targeting Grantaire.

He tried to close his mind to it all, to make it a quiet, blank space that excluded any of the events at the hospital, but it was an impossible task something not even Tom Cruise could figure out, and who was Grantaire to Tom Cruise? He was a nobody, a weak man who stood at that man’s bedside and made small talk with him, like he was a polite stranger, like he wasn’t cut in half just by the mere sight of the other, like he was someone good and bright. Like he was before that day, before meeting Enjolras.

“Éponine,” he said, her name coming out his mouth like a sigh, like a cry for help, “there is no other way to go about this.”

“Isn’t there? I should think it’s pretty obvious.”

“Yeah? O great one, do tell.”

“Grantaire,” she bit out, frustrated, “just talk to Enjolras about this-”

“I can’t talk to him though, that’s just the thing, isn’t it Éponine? I can’t, because he is not here.”

“You saw him. You looked him in the eye, he is-”

“It’s not real,” he said softly, looking out the window. The soft morning light illuminated the kitchen in a lovely shade of gold. Grantaire hated the Parisian sun. It killed things with its sweetness.

Éponine looked like she was about to cry.

“Because he doesn’t remember you?”

The reality of her words made Grantaire shut his eyes.

“No. Because he is dead. And dude, this may come as a surprise to you, but the dead don’t actually come back. Like, not in real life.”

“Then how do you explain any of this, R?” But it wasn't Éponine who spoke.

Grantaire hadn’t noticed that the sound of typing had stopped, but it must have, because Combeferre was standing there now, straight and tall in the kitchen, one hand on the chair next to Éponine. She looked up at him, straining her neck as she did so, dark hair falling back on her shoulders.

A puff of air escaped Grantaire, still unaccustomed to the sight of him.

“Combeferre,” he began, words foreign and hard in his mouth. “I know- I know how hard this is for you, for all you guys, I know that this isn’t just about me, and I don’t want to make it about me, believe me, but. I’m telling you, that man is not Enjolras.”

Combeferre’s eyes looked glistened over behind his glasses. It seemed that he could not look at Grantaire without a pained expression, much like Grantaire couldn’t really look at Combeferre either.

“You can’t honestly think that this is making it about you, right? Grantaire, you were in love with him and he died holding your hand.”

The hard sound of Éponine putting her cup down was the only answer to that. None of them needed any reminder.

“I’m a doctor, Grantaire. Or I’m going to be one. Do you think- do you think I don’t know what it’s like? I see people die every single day, and they don’t- they don’t come back. I know that.”

Combeferre sighed, running a hand through his black curls, the lighter color of his palm a sweet contrast.

“But then there was Enjolras, that night. He- he called me by my name, he recognized me. And I know, I know that it shouldn’t be possible, but look, just look: what if somehow it is?”

Grantaire looked down.

“Maybe he has amnesia, maybe he will – maybe the memories will come back. Grantaire, don’t think that we are not aware that this is, once again, hardest on you. But he could remember, Grantaire, if you spent some time with him, or even give him some time, he could. He could be like he used to be. We could be like that. Haven’t you had enough of living like this? Don’t you want it-”

“Of course, I want it,” Grantaire shouted back, his voice a low roar, and maybe he was like Enjolras in that moment, he didn’t know. Maybe he had surprising bits of Enjolras hidden inside himself. He couldn’t keep his voice down, it was thundering out him, and Éponine flinched, but Combeferre just stood there, staring at him intently.

“Of course I want things to fucking – _be like_ they were, but. Combeferre, I want- I want it to be _real_ , goddamit.”

A sweet breeze transformed Combeferre’s face. “And how do you know this isn’t real?”

“How do you know it _is_? Fuck, how can you let yourself think like this? How can Courf joke about him, how can you all- what if it’s not him? Hmm? What if we start doing this, get used to loving him again, and then one day it goes away again? It’s not going to be like before. It’s going to be _worse._ ”

“Yes,” Combeferre agreed, his voice so soft it hurt to hear more than Grantaire’s own howl. “But- maybe it’s braver to hope.”

“Well, maybe I’m not brave then.”

“You’re the bravest person I know, R.”

Grantaire scowled, a bitterness flowing in his veins, his mouth tasting lousy. Combeferre clasped his hands together in front of him, ignoring his reaction, and speaking, speaking, on and on, like he would.

“They are going to discharge Enjolras in a few days’ time. He is going to move in with me for the time being – my place really is closest to, uh, where he used to live, back in college. He is going to be around, Grantaire, and if you want to leave, then do, and know that nobody, not one of us, will judge you for it.”

Grantaire looked up at the ceiling, following the slight cracks with his eyes. This place needed repainting soon.

“It’s your decision, but- maybe this time around, we get through this together. Whatever comes next.”

**

By the time Éponine’s tea got cold and Courfeyrac got out of the shower, Grantaire was all packed and ready to get the fuck out of there, no offense. This was just too hard. He could go back to Adamant, get back to that life or whatever it was. Maybe he could get a dog? Ask Marius about his favorite movie?

And anyway, Éponine definitely needed to go back, she had a job, responsibilities, rent and bills to pay. She actually stood somewhere in the world, and maybe Grantaire could do that too. He would be far away, like a bird taking flight on the wind. Adamant was a two-hour train ride from Paris. Hell, in that time, he could be born again.

He shook hands with Combeferre and got a long hug from Courfeyrac and also a warning to say goodbye to the others. Grantaire promised, knowing he wouldn’t, and the look Courfeyrac gave him implied that they both knew it was a lie. It didn’t matter.

Out on the busy street he realized he was out of money, so he and Éponine agreed to meet at the train station, and he went to the opposite direction to get money from a machine. Grantaire’s obscure bank didn’t really have machines stocked all over town, so he had to go to the bank itself, taking a bus first and sitting through 4 stops to get there.

When he got to the bus stop though, he walked straight on instead of getting on Bus 4Y, and his feet took him further and further away, not even knowing where he was going, what he was supposed to be going.

It felt like breaking free, walking through Paris one more time, seeing the things he used to see every day and knowing that he hated all of it, that he could never stay here, not again, not anymore. But it also felt like being trapped, walking through Paris one more time, knowing that he was supposed to be getting some money to be able to go home, to leave this place, and instead he was walking to a place – because really, he _knew_ just where he was going – he was not, under any circumstances, supposed to be walking to.

All the while, his breathing became more and more ragged, his lungs feeling like murder inside his body, his heart barely keeping up with the speed his legs demanded.

Around the hospital the air appeared to be scarce as though Grantaire had just walked on top of a mountain in some exotic, faraway location. The red bricks of the building made his eyes hurt, and the people, walking in and out of the entrance door made him feel envious. They could just enter and leave without wanting to fall into pieces.

And he was so pathetic, such an idiot, he couldn’t believe himself. He stood there, breathing hard, staring at the hospital and maybe trying to figure out which windows glowed with his pain, which window held something that he wanted, but wanted, even more deeply, not to want.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” he whispered, a resignation in his voice, like he knew he couldn’t help it, coming here, staring, hoping. “A motherfucking idiot, Jesus. This is not what we agreed on.”

(You’re so beautiful. I’m glad you came to see us.)

“Jesus Christ,” Grantaire sobbed, trying to fish out his phone from his pocket, the small device buzzing to life in his hands. He couldn’t really see what number he picked out, but he sure hoped it was the right one.

“Hey, Grantaire, did you get the money?” Éponine’s voice was low and she spoke with an accent he hadn’t really noticed before, except there and in that moment in Paris, when the city trapped him and made him want to stay.

“Éponine, I just can’t – I can’t fucking _leave_.”

On the other end of the line, he could hear Éponine make a sound he couldn’t really identify.

“Okay,” she said, cooing into his hear, and Grantaire sobbed again.

“I mean, how fucking pathetic is that?”

“Grantaire, this is fine. You’re fine.”

“And I mean, I know that this is stupid, and, and that this isn’t even real, but-”

“But you can’t go back when you know that something like this is here in the city. Grantaire, I get it,” Éponine sounded calm, and not even disappointed, which, maybe Grantaire should have been hurt by that a little.

“I’d like to say I knew this would happen, but really, I was just hoping it would,” she went on, and what she said reminded Grantaire of Combeferre, the way he was sure and steady even in his pain and uncertainty, something sweet always at the corner of his mouth.

“I hate this.”

“Grantaire. Listen. It’s okay. You’re going to try, okay? And you can come back anytime you think that this is, like, too much. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he breathed.

“I guess I better buy my fucking ticket then,” she sighed, sounding once again like the Éponine who was kind of mean sometimes. “Abandoner.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out way to broken sounding.

“I guess you better,” he said, and then they hung up the phone.

Grantaire looked up at the hospital, tall and big and old, and having someone who looked and moved and spoke like Enjolras inside it, and he wanted to hit himself. This wasn’t even fucking real. That man in there didn’t even fucking remember him.

“Such a fucking idiot _loser,_ ” he said one more time, for good measure.

**

“Oh my God, R, I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Cosette said the next day at the flower market, bursting into tears. Grantaire knew she would react strongly, but the tears rather alarmed him. He had his hands in his pockets and they were walking between the tables full of flowers, and Cosette was crying.

“Cosette-”

“I just, oh my God. I just want you to be happy, and it’s been so long, and now you’re moving back,” Cosette said, rambling and wiping off a tear. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Well,” he replied, swallowing hard. “Yes. Kind of.”

“And I mean, we know this is going to be hard, but, there’s a chance, that like, we can get back to the way things were,” Cosette said, shaking her head in disbelief, and Grantaire stopped walking. Cosette didn’t notice and continued, “He’s going to remember, Grantaire. This is a miracle, and he’s going to come back to us, fully, right?”

She looked back at Grantaire, only to find him several steps back, standing there with a terrified expression on his face.

“R? What- what is it?”

“I’m not – I don’t, um, really want to see him,” he mumbled.

“But,” Cosette said, eyes wide, “I thought?”

“Yeah, I’m staying,” Grantaire stated, sounding more sure than he could ever feel. “But, Cosette, I’m not staying for – because I think things are like they were. They’re- I mean; we can’t be sure that this is really him.”

Cosette looked nonplussed, her delighted expression slowly breaking, her lips pouting. Her golden hair crowned her face, and among the flowers, she looked something like a fairy princess.

“Grantaire-”

Grantaire held up his hand.

“No, listen. I’m _staying_. Because I can’t go back, not after- I can’t leave unless I know, until there’s a possibility that this is,” he groaned, unable to express himself. “I’m staying because I want to be okay again. And the way I’ve been living before – that wasn’t okay, Cosette. It wasn’t. I’m just – not here for him. I’m here for, you know. Myself. Or whatever.”

Cosette’s face became soft again, her eyes filled with kindness. She smiled softly at him.

“I think that’s great,” she said. “I do. And even if – if you don’t want to, you know, see him and act like things are – that’s fine. And, you’re still going to have to come to ours eventually.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“For Joly’s legendary dinner. Him, Bossuet, you, me. How about it?”

Grantaire thought about Joly’s cooking, that one time he ruined a heat-up pizza, or when he put salt into the cocoa instead of sugar; the eager expression on his face as he watched Grantaire take a first bite and pretend it was edible and not, like, man-made poison.

And he thought about being alone at his place back in Adamant except for when Éponine came over, thought about drinking alone until he couldn’t see, thought about walking to the beach and looking at the sunset.

He smiled, a sad, fragile thing, and it felt like his skin was breaking. “That sounds really nice.”

Cosette grinned. “Yaay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Carrie Fisher. We are less without her.  
> I will see you guys in the new year, may it be less terrible than the one before.  
> And hey, this chapter was written by someone who has been in Paris just the one time and has no idea where places are. Whatever. Sorry about that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's plan to avoid Enjolras and focus on himself doesn't seem to be working out all that well.

“So, which one of you is Rachel, and which one of you is Ross?” Grantaire asked one day, sitting in the café with his legs on top of the table, and Enjolras groaned. This was back in the day when, after the infamous date, Grantaire was trying to navigate through The Friends and how he might have fit into their lives, with little success. He assumed most of them liked him, or at least, tolerated him enough to make friendly, but Enjolras was still untamable and of course, perfectly unapproachable.

“What are you even talking about? And, in what way, does it relate to racial issues?” Enjolras asked, his eyes rolling back so far in his head Grantaire bet he could see his brains.

“I think I’m Rachel,” Bossuet said, munching on his cookies. “I mean, I’m working afternoons here at the café, plus, just look at how unlucky I am – exhibit A: my entire life. Insane.”

“Yeah, plus you’re clearly the pretty one in the group,” Bahorel roared, swinging in his chair. Combeferre was looking at him leaning farther and farther away from the ground, eyes wide in concern.

“Not that I’m saying you’re Ross, or anything,” Bossuet continued, head snapping to look at Joly. They were both blushing furiously now. “Ross is such a Nice Guy, like, capital N and G, the kind who is really an asshole, and you’re the best, Joly.

“No, you’re really more of a Phoebe, Joly,” Feuilly added, not even looking up from his notebook.

Joly grinned. “Totally.”

“Then I really think you’re Chandler, Grantaire,” Jehan spoke, drawing circles on a piece of paper in front of him. He took a sip from his coffee before he continued. “Self-deprecating jokes. Unlucky in love.”

“Too fucking right,” Grantaire grumbled, not really liking this game anymore.

Enjolras was looking around them, still frowning, rather a permanent feature of his, especially when Grantaire was around.

“I don’t see how any of us would be like these characters. For one, there’s too many us.”

Grantaire grinned at him, mocking.

“Wow, you really should have thought of that before naming your group The _Friends_ , Enjolras dear.”

“Um, what? I didn’t name it after a sitcom.”

“Yeah, he actually wanted to name it The Merry Men,” Courfeyrac cried. “But he got vetoed for obvious reasons.”

**

Grantaire had only been back three days but he already felt like it was too much, much like Éponine had predicted.

For one, there was his living situation. Joly, Bossuet and Cosette very kindly (and enthusiastically) offered to have him as long as he wanted, but just thinking about their tiny apartment, not even close to being big enough for the three of them, made Grantaire feel guilty.

He guessed he could make it without sleeping for a couple of days, and then figure something out in good time, but that first evening he received a very warm and somehow very firm invitation form Courfeyrac. He had already been sort of staying with him, but he really didn’t think he could bother Courfeyrac permanently; the man was a professional actor, probably with a grand social life, and Grantaire couldn’t freeload there indefinitely.

Courfeyrac seemed to think differently, though, judging from his reaction when Grantaire told him of his non-sleeping, non-crashing plans.

“Jesus, Grantaire, no way in hell,” he stated, a hand running through his dark curls. He really did look older, Grantaire mused, in rather obvious ways. Courfeyrac had lost the endearing baby fat from his face, and apparently decided that growing facial hair was the way towards successful stardom.

“My place is like a palace, R, and I’m not saying it to brag. I’m saying you can stay there for the rest of your life if you want, and we could maybe not even run into each other during that time. Not that I would want that, you know. You’re one of my best friends. Still, you are.”

That sudden declaration made Grantaire feel uneasy, and it was fearful he would start crying, which, just no.

“I guess I’ll stay with you, then,” he replied instead, clearing his throat. “If it really is okay with you.”

“Man, of course it is. The more the merrier.”

“The more the merrier,” Grantaire repeated, pale and still moved by Courfeyrac’s words. One of his best friends – wow, surely Courfeyrac deserved better than to have Grantaire as a friend, the guy who left for two years and never left a note or a word behind.

Grantaire, the best friend, who would drink himself stupid and drunkenly hallucinate Enjolras beside himself in the craziest of situations. Sounded like a full fucking package. They were probably going to start writing it on billboards all over Paris.

**

Closing Courfeyrac’s door behind him, Grantaire almost got a heart-attack: there was Enjolras, in all his glory, standing in the kitchen, and looking at Grantaire.

“Fuck,” Grantaire exclaimed, clutching his heart like a hero from 1930’s black and white movie, and the other man – who was Enjolras or something – winced.

“Sorry I scared you,” he said, simple as that, like Grantaire’s whole life hadn’t just played out in front his eyes, like seeing Enjolras here didn’t make him feel like his chest was being cut open from the inside. “Courfeyrac’s not here.”

His voice was plain, his tone informative, but Enjolras could never make something sound ugly, so this, of course, these seven words were the most beautiful thing Grantaire had ever heard in his entire life.

He looked up at the blond’s face, and tried not to see Enjolras, but it was futile, like every effort of Grantaire’s. Enjolras looked tall and sharp in his red sweatshirt (where did he get that shirt), and he looked relatively healthier than the last time Grantaire had seem him in that hospital room, when he was covered with neon lights and blue skies.

Here, standing in the early autumn sun, he looked so real and so much like something Grantaire remembered, he could hardly bear it. Life was a fucking joke.

“Oh,” Grantaire said, just to say something. He almost turned around to leave, relieved to be able to escape this burlesque torture, when it dawned on him. “I actually, I sort of live here.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, eyes wide. “I didn’t – sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, suddenly regretting every single decision that led to this moment. He walked, slowly, out the kitchen and into the living room, putting his bag on the floor next to Courfeyrac’s ridiculously expensive coffee table.

He turned around again, only to find Enjolras right behind him, and the startled sound he let out this time would have been funny if he wasn’t this pained over the other man’s amused smile.

“Sorry, again,” Enjolras said, that sweet laugh still on his mouth when he went on, “so, how come you’re living with Courf? I mean, did you always?”

Grantaire blinked, looking ahead, and very-very not at Enjolras.

“Nah,” he said to the book case behind the two of them. “I moved out of town some time ago, and only just moved back. This arrangement is temporary, don’t worry.”

“Why would I be worried?” Enjolras asked, looking at him funny.

“Dunno,” Grantaire breathed, not even caring anymore.

His expression must have been rather grave, because Enjolras tilted his head and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“What?” Grantaire asked, snapping his head back to stare at Enjolras, and it felt like staring straight into the sun, only it hurt him in different places. “No! No, I’m just, tired and. I didn’t, like, know you were gonna be here, um.”

“Oh God, I didn’t break in, if that’s-”

“No, uh. Obviously not. I just meant. Did you get discharged from the hospital?”

Enjolras nodded. “Yeah, they let me go this morning. I’m staying with Combeferre now, you know, my place is unavailable for the time being.”

_His place_. Jesus Christ.

Enjolras didn’t know. He didn’t know how much time had passed.

He watched him walk across the room, running his hands over the shelves of the bookcase, a gesture that Grantaire felt like a knife in his heart. Enjolras stopped at the window, looking over the pretentious view from the apartment, and-

“Where’s the bookstore?”

Grantaire didn’t follow. “What?”

“The bookstore. The one that just opened across the street. Where – where did it go?” Enjolras asked, looking back at Grantaire, his face pale suspicion.

Cold sweat. “Uh.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said again, which made him feel like he was being punched in the face repeatedly.

“It went bankrupt, probably. You know how it is with small businesses.”

“In a few weeks?” Enjolras asked, disbelief plain on his face, and Grantaire’s heart was broken again and again, a hundred times over.

_Weeks_. This creature was so convinced that whatever happened to him only lasted a couple of weeks, that he would get to continue the life of that someone he was stuck being, or pretending to be. Enjolras. Enjolras. Enjolras.

“Enjolras, listen.”

Would Grantaire have to enlighten him? Was the world that cruel?

“How long,” Enjolras asked, and it seemed he already knew what Grantaire was about to say, his face like the calm before the storm. “Grantaire, how long was I- what happened to me, how long did it-”

(Who brings a gun to a peaceful protest?)

“Two years,” Grantaire said, and he could feel those two years inside of him, his body a warzone. The blinding sun, the red on his hands, the small noises Enjolras made as he lay there dying, the blank look in the mirror, the sunsets in Adamant.

And Enjolras’s face was a riot.

_“What._ ”

He had to reach back and hold onto the window pane, his face white and whiter still, and he looked so broken and so innocent, like the child Enjolras, _Grantaire’s_ Enjolras never was. There was an unpleasant taste in Grantaire’s mouth.

The opening and slamming of the front door broke them out of their trance, and Courfeyrac galloped into the living room, shouting out, “Sorry I took so-”

Then he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Enjolras and Grantaire, the two staring back at him.

“Oh God,” Courfeyrac said. He was looking only at Grantaire now, his face an apologetic mess. “I only went down to the shop for a minute, I swear, I didn’t know you would be back by now, I am so sorry, Grantaire-”

Grantaire made a strangled sound, staring at Enjolras helplessly.

“Two years?” Enjolras asked, looking at Courfeyrac like he had personally wronged him, and the man stared back, mouth agape.

“I, Enjolras-”

“It’s been two years?” He asked again, this time from no one in particular. He sank to the ground, slow and destroyed, and Grantaire couldn’t watch this, couldn’t see the sun go out like this, it looked too real, it felt too real. Enjolras dying in a million little ways.

“We were going to tell you,” Courfeyrac whispered.

“ _When_? When I try to go home to my apartment? When I go back to the university to- Oh God. I don’t have a diploma. I didn’t graduate college.”

A raw sob clawed out of Grantaire’s throat, his face feeling like wild waves in the sea.

“And,” the blond went on, his voice shaky, Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras, “and I don’t have my memories. I don’t remember _you_ , I don’t know-”

(You’re so beautiful.)

“-Grantaire, I don’t know who you are, how we know each other, how – _anything._ ”

Every word he said was like walking on broken glass for Grantaire, sharp pains from second after second, never stopping, never beginning, like Enjolras was drawing a circle around him even after he was gone.

He had been telling himself how this man was nothing like Enjolras, that he was but a thief, stealing Enjolras’ face, Enjolras’ voice, his eyes, his hands. But the way he stood there, watching Enjolras collapse deeper and deeper into the carpet, it was very difficult to remember that.

This was Enjolras’s echo, what he left behind, what he left inside Grantaire, but it hurt and it breathed the same way it would have if he had been still alive. Grantaire needed to check his hand to see if there was blood on it.

Enjolras let out a harsh breath, and Grantaire felt like he had been clicked back into reality, the noise inside his head quieting.

“Who,” Enjolras started, his voice steadier, more sure, “who won the elections?”

Courfeyrac burst out in a laugh; relieved, broken, triumphant.

**

“I’m so sorry about all of this, R,” Courfeyrac whispered to him in the kitchen later, while Enjolras was on the internet, getting caught up with everything that he had missed. Grantaire couldn’t keep looking at his face, focused and determined, so he had to join Courfeyrac and watch him work a coffee maker that was way too complicated for any man to understand.

He shrugged in response to Courf’s words.

“He just showed up, ready to mingle,” Courfeyrac continued, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Got out of the hospital, came straight here, hadn’t even eaten. I needed to run down to the shop to get something for him, I. I was still _really surprised_ to see him.”

(The sun was almost blinding.)

“I think I have to go,” Grantaire said suddenly, his voice hoarse. Courfeyrac looked at him, knowing and sad, but he nodded. “I can’t really-”

“You should stay,” a voice said, and Grantaire could not help once again to flinch. Enjolras, who was standing in the doorway, looked abashed.

“I keep scaring you,” he said. He didn’t apologize this time, though. “But really, you should stay. I, I forgot a lot. And missed a lot. I, I really – want to know more about you? Maybe I’ll remember?”

He looked so _hopeful._

Grantaire’s hands were shaking, he tried to hide them by putting them in his pocket.

“I can’t,” he breathed, barely audible. No matter how much like Enjolras this man was, spending time with him, seeing him, hearing him, smelling him – and thinking about the Enjolras he didn’t have. That would do no good. That wasn’t the life Grantaire wanted to live.

He wanted to be the Grantaire _his_ Enjolras had fallen in love with. He wanted to be himself again, and this was not the place he would be able to achieve that.

Enjolras looked almost disappointed. “Are you sure? I mean, if it’s a problem – I can _leave_.”

“No,” Grantaire protested. “No, I have – dinner obligations.”

Maybe Joly would still make him dinner tonight if he asked him now. Maybe burnt quesadillas. Maybe veggie burgers without veggies. The possibilities were endless.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner parties happen.

Before opening the door, Joly peaked out like a little kid. Then he let out a squeal and opened the door wide, making it possible for Grantaire to get a glance of their apartment. He remembered dirty walls that must have once been white, and the complete lack of shelves in the place – Joly and Bossuet always put everything on the ground, making it A Thing. ‘Honestly, it’s a waste of money’, Bossuet used to say. ‘If the floor won’t hold it, nothing will.’

However true this was, the apartment looked strikingly different now, so Grantaire assumed the men dropped this avant-garde philosophy about storing things. The foyer was a warm peach color now, the kind that Grantaire would have loved to paint with, if it had been a thing he still did. Alas, he could still appreciate the beauty of it, how inviting it made their place seem. He hadn’t even gone in yet, but he could see a cupboard next to the coat hanger, and a small bookshelf nailed to the wall, pocket books and magazines arranged on it neatly.

Was this the touch of Cosette, or the true length of those two years Grantaire had been away?

Joly, all the while, kept on grinning, and something slow and warm was spreading its wings in Grantaire’s chest.

“Boy am I glad to see you,” he said, jumping on Grantaire to lock him into a hug. Joly was a tiny guy, but he could hug like no other. A good hug took dedication and familiarity, you had to be willing to wrap your entire body around the other person, had to lean in all the right places. Joly was an A+ hugger in that front, hands around Grantaire’s neck, lean and strong.

Grantaire hadn’t felt home in a really long time.

“Me, too, Jolllly,” he murmured back, a muffled sound against the man’s hair, which kept getting into his mouth. He drawled Joly’s name like he used to, a running joke between freshman boys.

Joly let go, his grin ready to give power to a thousand suns.

“Oh gosh. Oh gosh,” he kept saying, stretching his fingers. “This is going to be the best night ever!”

He grinned back, “It totally will be.”

“Right? Right? Fish sticks, _Bossuet_! Bossuet, R is here!”

Joly shouted across the apartment, stepping away from the door, gesturing at Grantaire to come in. He did just that, wiping his feet in the doormat, and taking a good look at the place. The feeling in his chest intensified; his friends’ home truly gave off a light, fuzzy vibe. The whole apartment, tiny as it was, felt so lived in. The kitchen was situated right next to the foyer, and was right now occupied by both Bossuet and Joly, making it impossible for another person to step inside. The stove was full of pots, steaming, fuming angrily, and Bossuet was grabbing at them clumsily.

“Ugh,” he yelped. “Joly, it’s alive!”

“Take off the top, dummy, quick,” Joly ordered him, and Bossuet followed his instructions. The content of the pot was now drawing back, much like a monster into its moor after being awakened by unlucky travelers.

Bossuet looked up at Grantaire, his bald head glowing under the lamplight.

“Hey, man, I’m so happy you made it! Cosette’s not home yet, we’re expecting her any minute though.”

“How come?”

“Long shift,” Bossuet explained, and Grantaire nodded, but he wasn’t completely sure what Cosette’s job was, which made him feel ashamed. He really hadn’t been part of this group of friends for quite some time – and yet, they welcomed him like the prodigal son.

“Oh yeah,” Joly said, checking the oven. “Prepare to eat, R!”

“Yeah, man, prepare to eat food,” Bossuet laughed, “prepare to experience the concept of dinner like a pro!”

“Um, dude, I’m totally preparing. A heads-up would have been nice though, I was expecting the deconstruction of the whole concept of dinner and meal. Can’t say I’m not disappointed.”

“Yeah,” Bossuet nodded. “we’re not sore losers though. It’s fine.”

“What are you making,” Grantaire turned to Joly. He started bouncing, obviously happy to be asked about cooking, which, wow.

“That, R, is the one-million-dollar question,” he said. “I’ll tell you though, I will: I’m making roasted duck with raspberry glaze!”

“I, wow,” Grantaire managed, gaping slightly. “That is… ambitious, my friend.”

“I’ve been really getting into the whole cooking thing lately,” Joly told him, eyes bright. “I’ve been watching the man himself.”

“Putin?”

“Jamie Oliver.”

“That’s right, R,” Bossuet added. “Gone are the days of burnt mashed potatoes and disgraced burritos.”

“Yep, this is a whole new Joly, standing in this very room,” the other man said, drunk with glee.

Grantaire felt the room slightly tilt around him, the edges blurred, the floor somehow closer than it had been. His eyes suddenly filled with tears, which, wow, pathetic. He was going to burst out in tears the one night he wanted to feel good, to have a nice dinner with his friends.

“I’m sorry that I. Uh, missed all that,” he said, his voice unrecognizable even to himself. Bossuet and Joly stopped and stared, their faces making him feel even worse, he was such a jerk, leaving friends behind, coming back to cry in their kitchens. Classic Grantaire.

“Oh, Grantaire, it’s okay,” Joly said, his voice unbearably kind. Grantaire laughed a humorless laugh, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“You can totally cry, though, if you need to or whatever,” Bossuet said. “This is a safe place.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire sniffed. “Sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh Gosh, it’s totally one hundred per cent okay. Come on, sit down,” Joly said, pulling out a chair from God knows where. Grantaire sniffed and obeyed, the chair creaking under him.

“It’s just that I saw - Enjolras again today.”

There was a moment of silence as the two men looked at each other, drawing a breath.

“You went to the hospital again?”

“He got discharged. Today, apparently,” Grantaire said, focusing on his breathing. “Showed up at Courfeyrac’s. It was, hmm, a shock.”

Bossuet pulled out another chair – seriously, where were they getting those chairs from – and sat down beside Grantaire, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“We’re so sorry, R,” Joly said softly.

Bossuet nodded, then tilted his head. “How did he- I mean, did he seem-”

“He seemed _exactly_ like Enjolras,” Grantaire said, frowning at nothing. “It was terrible, because he, he, well, he _isn’t_. Not now, or not ever, I don’t know.”

“It’s perfectly normal to be confused,” Joly observed. “This situation is completely impossible, and after what you’ve been through these past two years-”

“Yeah, man, you can adjust. We all can, with time,” Bossuet said.

“Maybe I don’t want to adjust,” Grantaire admitted. He kept thinking about the Enjolras in Courfeyrac’s apartment, looking at him hopefully, asking him to stay. And the Enjolras he had, the one he loved, the one he used to mock and laugh at, the one who was in love with him in return. That Enjolras was dead – wasn’t he? Could it be that some sort of miracle--?

Fuck that. Fuck everyone saying that this was a miracle, or anything more than the worst thing the universe had ever come up with.

Grantaire wasn’t going to fall down again.

“Maybe I want this to be over.”

“Grantaire,” Joly said, his face positively Bambi-like. “He is going to remember you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. Please don’t try to make out like this isn’t bad for you too. Like you’re not- suffering.”

“Well, duh, of course I’m suffering, what else is new?”

“R,” Bossuet said, sighing. He leaned back in his chair. “It’s so-weird to think that he is out there, right now. Enjolras.”

“Don’t think about it then,” Grantaire snapped. Joly whimpered, and Bossuet stared at R.

He sighed, closing his eyes shut.

“Look, sorry, but. Maybe I don’t want to think about this – _him_ – right now? I just, I’ve been – I came here to have the best dinner of my life, you know?”

Joly jumped to his feet, a vengeance in his eyes.

“Yes! Heck yes! This dinner is going to rock!”

Grantaire tried to smile.

“Yeah.”

“It’s going to rock your socks off!”

Bossuet grinned. “It totally will, Joly.”

“Yes yes yes! Frick. It’s gonna be awesome. Oh man. _Oh man_.”

They could hear the door open out in the foyer, and Cosette’s sweet voice rang in their ears.

“Grantaire, why can’t I see your shoes out here? Take them off immediately.”

Bossuet jumped, staring at Grantaire.

“Oh, dude, right. This is a shoe-free zone.”

Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment, a smile spreading across his face. He took his shoes off.

He had loved Enjolras and he had grieved him. But tonight, he was going to eat himself stupid with his friends.

**

The food was amazing. Seriously, it was really, really good, delicious and fancy, the raspberry complementing the duck like you wouldn’t believe. Joly had really learned how to cook. It made Grantaire want to cry, thinking about those early disastrous attempts from years ago.

Time truly had passed spectacularly between the four of them, but when the two men started talking, nudging Grantaire with their elbows, interrupting each other, their voices louder and louder, you couldn’t feel the distance and the days that Grantaire had missed.

One could say that what Joly and Grantaire had was rather a low-maintenance friendship; they could be apart for forever, and still talk and joke and laugh like they saw each other every single day.

As Joly launched into a story about the time he worried that he had actually gotten the bubonic plague, Grantaire smiled, staring at him bemusedly. When Joly was eighteen, he was short, wore braces, and would tend to use expressions resembling a Pekingese dog. Now, although he was just as short, he looked bigger, seemed to take up more space from his surroundings, as though he had whole cities inside of him.

Grantaire stared and stared. His oldest friend had a small smile on his face as he spoke, not even looking at anyone just saying all the things that came to mind, his eyes glowing with something light.

Look how _alive_ Joly he was. This was what Grantaire had left behind.

Something dark like shame curled in his stomach now, as he hummed and nodded along, the conversation ever-flowing, and Grantaire took his eyes off Joly to glance at Bossuet instead. The man was smiling at Joly, gazing at him like there wasn’t anything else to be looked at in the room, and Grantaire felt proud and powerful, because who knew? Who knew that going to that café all those years ago and chatting with a prematurely bald stranger would lead to this, would lead to them, sitting together, sharing a home with each other.

Bossuet was looking at Joly with an amused fondness. Grantaire remembered the way Enjolras used to look at him, his eyes burning and bright, almost as if he was ready to devour anything Grantaire gave him – it was so different from this look, yet very much the same.

Love made a home in people in various ways.

Enjolras would never look at him like that ever again, Grantaire thought to himself, an idea ever-present in his mind. That Enjolras was no longer, and the one who appeared in his stolen place could not even recall Grantaire’s name the first time he laid eyes on him.

Grantaire was a stranger to this Enjolras, somebody he was polite with, somebody he wanted to learn more about. Enjolras used to know everything there was to know about Grantaire, made the other man show every hidden, ugly part of him, and showed all his colors to Grantaire in return. Alas, gone were the days of Enjolras’ easy smiles, his happy humming, his unapologetic rantings to Grantaire, gone were the days of unconditional trust.

Grantaire had lost that part of him long ago, and now the wretched echo of it was looking at him through the new Enjolras’ eyes, mocking him, daring him, urging him on. He was a fool, that much was established knowledge, but he was no fool for false hope. All the things he and Enjolras had shared were broken now, and could never be mended, could never go back to the way they were, as all his friends seemed to think they would.

_This is a miracle, and he is going to remember you._ What the fuck. How dare they say things like that, to Grantaire’s face, waiting for his reaction, expecting him to agree with such sentiments. It was, after all, easy for all of them, was it not? It was not them Enjolras had forgotten, they still had a friend, someone who looked just like the one they had lost – bullshit.

Nothing was given back to you. He didn’t understand how they could replace Enjolras, the beautiful, magnificent Enjolras, with his pale look-a-like. Enjolras used to burn so brightly, like a riot, like a faraway galaxy, and this man, this new someone –

But Grantaire couldn’t keep telling himself these things. Not when he knew how much like Enjolras this man was, how exactly like Enjolras he raised his eyebrow, licked his lips, tilted his head. Walked like him, spoke like him. Maybe he laughed like Enjolras. Maybe he loved like he once did.

Enjolras found out today that he had lost two years of his - _assumed_ – life. Grantaire remembered the broken panic in his expression, had seen it with his own two eyes, and felt sympathy bloom inside of him for this Enjolras, the way a flower grew out of the ground, softly, and then all at once, something strong growing, growing towards the sky.

Being in the same room as the new Enjolras, looking at him, talking to him, made Grantaire feel terribly disoriented. It was like looking at a photo of someone you knew very well, taken before you knew them – it felt like the person you were looking at was not the person you knew, not yet, they had to become that someone you loved, they had to be who they really were first.

Enjolras before Enjolras – was there even terminology for that? Grantaire was not sure. Cosette started discussing a movie she had seen with Joly and Bossuet, arguing loudly about the nature of the plot twist – a twist Bossuet had seen coming way before the end, obviously.

But Grantaire was not really paying attention. Will he ever? Will he be able to be in a room, and stay there, completely in the moment? Had he lost that along with Enjolras? Had he taken that as well?

Grantaire should have probably started making a list about the things he didn’t know long before this.

He wondered about Enjolras, both of them, all of them, every possible version of him existing somewhere in the world – in other times, or in parallel universes, on the back of postcards. If they had met like this, he and Enjolras, if he had been a calm stranger to him instead of the infuriating debate partner, would he have grown to love Grantaire? There was no question about Grantaire falling in love with everything Enjolras – it was his destiny and his doom.

He wondered about, among all versions, his Enjolras, his own, the image of him great and shaky, somehow bigger than the inside of Grantaire’s mind, not fitting. His Enjolras had been kind, good, passionate, reckless. He gave smiles like rewards, and he disrespected authorities like there was no tomorrow. That Enjolras would have seen the heartbreak in those eyes like his own, and he would have been the first to help, the first to offer everything he knew, everything he had.

Grantaire didn’t know if he could be like that, wasn’t sure if he would be able to offer this new person the help he ought to have – but he knew this one thing now, as sure and crystal clear as the summer sun: Enjolras would want Grantaire to help, he would want him to care.

He wanted to make that Enjolras proud. He wanted to, somehow, help this new Enjolras – no matter how much it hurt to look at him. Grantaire would be strong, stronger than he had ever been before.

“Yeah, dude, sure,” he said in response to Joly’s question, though he had no idea what it was.

**

Walking home – well, to Courfeyrac’s place, at least -, Paris was quiet around Grantaire, autumn not yet present in the city, only foreshadowing its arrival with the occasionally chilly breezes, and the falling leaves.

When the dinner was over, Joly, Bossuet, and Cosette wrapped Grantaire in a heart wrenching embrace, telling him how happy they were to finally have him over, and how they would go to the movies together that weekend. They really were the best kind of people. Grantaire was fucking pathetic.

He was pathetic, but Paris was quiet. This slow quietness made Grantaire feel uneasy, made his heart heavier than the mountains or the oceans. His heaviness lay in Saint-Michel, it lay on the asphalt of Rue de Bonaparte, it lay in the apartment he had shared with Enjolras, now sold, and new people living in it, calling it a home.

It was a strange kind of heaviness.

Walking home.

Paris was quiet.

Grantaire half-expected to be roused, to be stopped or to be attacked, each step more hesitant than the one before, but there was nothing, not even people, that he encountered on his way to the building Courfeyrac lived in. He looked to his right, spotting the Eiffel Tower, and he rolled his eyes. What sort of twenty-something could see the fucking Eiffel Tower from his apartment? Courfeyrac probably had croissants for breakfast too, that cliché bastard.

The sky was breaking as the sun slowly descended on the horizon, a gorgeous orange color spreading through it – Enjolras would love this, Grantaire thought. He breathed in, breathed out, looked up the sky again.

(It doesn’t matter if I’m incomplete.)

He went inside, practically running up the old stairs, frantic to sit down, to have some of the city’s quietness to himself.

But inside-

“Oh,” Grantaire said, biting his tongue. “You’re still here.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the most we've seen of Enjolras so far. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

“Yeah,” said Enjolras, scrunching his nose. Enjolras. Enjolras. Enjolras. Enjolras.

Come on. No.

“Sorry about that,” Enjolras went on. He was sitting at the kitchen table still, now alone, in front of him a glass of lemon water and a laptop, opened and probably flooded with every piece of news ever.

“What? No, it’s fine,” Grantaire said, trying not to act like the lemon water wasn’t breaking his heart. Because it wasn’t – it _wasn’t._

“Well, Combeferre is not coming – home tonight, because he has an emergency at the hospital, and he called Courf, who said I could crash here, on the couch. So if you don’t mind-”

“Jesus, of course I don’t mind, Apollo, you can stay here all you like, I am obviously not going to kick you out of someone else’s apartment – or anyone’s.”

Enjolras tilted his head to the side. “Apollo?”

Sweet Jesus.

“Uh, yeah,” Grantaire said, wondering just why he called Enjolras by the name he used to make him angry with. Pathetic fucking loser, abort, abort. “It’s a nickname.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, frowning. “Do I- like that name?”

A lazy, terrible smile spread on Grantaire’s face, like he was trying to make a parody out of himself. “You hate it.”

“Oh,” Enjolras breathed, sounding relieved. “That sounds… more like me.”

It did, Grantaire thought, all darkness. It really did.

“Where’s Courfeyrac?” Grantaire asked suddenly, looking around.

“In the shower.”

“Oh? He’s not singing though, it’s weird.”

“Oh, right,” Enjolras – Apollo – said, that polite tilt in his voice warming. “Well, maybe he is self-conscious about it, since we’re both out here.”

Grantaire snorted, looking away from the other man.

“Self-conscious, Courfeyrac? He is a stage actor; it doesn’t get more exhibitionist than that.”

He could hear Enjolras smiling, and Grantaire’s heart seemed to riot in his chest, one painful thump after another.

“Too true.”

His voice really was the worst of all, Grantaire thought. He could easily recall Enjolras’ face at any given time, he could stumble across a picture of him any day, but his voice he could never hear after he had died. And it was always the voice that made Enjolras who he was; the fierceness, the softness of it, the way it caressed Grantaire like liquid honey – those things made up the sound of Enjolras, and his very being as well.

And now, it was back. And now, that voice could rip Grantaire into pieces.

Maybe he should keep talking, Grantaire thought, so that Enjolras wouldn’t try to fill the silence between them. Grantaire would take a deafening silence over that voice any day. He was only a man, after all, not a fucking saint.

He was just opening his mouth, thinking of something to say, when Enjolras beat him to it.

“Are you going to stay?” He asked Grantaire, and the man turned to face Enjolras, surprised by the utter hopefulness that rung from those words. It made Grantaire want to throw up, right in front of Enjolras.

That would have been better than _this._

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice a shriek. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, where else would I go? I guess I could break into Combeferre’s, but that didn’t go so well last time, so.”

“Last time?” Enjolras asked, his face half-scorning, half-impressed. Grantaire shuddered.

“Oh, the things you don’t know,” he drawled, fully aware of the bitterness in his voice. “That’s a story for another time, Apollo.”

The other nodded, pursing his lips.

“What’s a story for tonight, then?”

This surprised Grantaire. “I’m sorry?”

“Are you going to tell me something?”

“Sure. The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

Enjolras sighed. “I actually did know that-”

“Of course you did,” Grantaire said, grinding his teeth.

“-and that’s not what I meant. Are you going to tell me something about yourself? Something I don’t know?”

Grantaire walked into the living room, and Enjolras followed, damn him. Grantaire pretended to look through the pile of magazines on Courfeyrac’s coffee table, avoiding to look at Enjolras – a fool’s errand. Trying not to look at such a complexion was like trying not to look into the sun; Grantaire was disconcertingly aware of his presence, it burned into his retinas.

“What _do_ you know about me?”

“Not much,” Enjolras admitted, his voice, that voice, ever so earnest. Grantaire hated the sound of that earnestness, made him clench his fists. “I know you are an artist. Or you were an artist.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you do now?”

“I am between jobs at the moment.”

“Are you going to get one here in Paris?”

“Most likely.”

“Good,” the blond said, all conviction. Grantaire let out a puff of air.

“Is it?”

“Well, yes,” Enjolras said, his brow furrowed. “What are you going to do?”

Grantaire lifted his eyebrows. “You ask an awful lot of questions.”

“There is an awful lot I don’t know.”

Grantaire looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, you have no idea.”

The bathroom door slammed open, and Courfeyrac appeared, towel around his waist, rubbing his wet curls with his hand. When he saw the two of them standing there (déjà vu), he came to a momentary halt, then proceeded to walk into the living room.

“Grantaire, you came back! Listen. Enjolras needs to crash here tonight, and he’s going to have the couch, and he won’t bother you at all, I _promise_.”

He was gazing at Grantaire pleadingly, and Grantaire truly hated how reasonable all of this sounded.

“It’s fine, Courf.”

“Of course I won’t bother him,” Enjolras said, sounding annoyed. “Am I usually bothersome?”

“Yes,” said Courfeyrac and Grantaire, not looking away from each other. Courfeyrac’s face was all guilt and begging, and Grantaire stared back at him blankly.

“It’s fine,” he said once again. Courfeyrac sighed.

“Alright,” Courfeyrac said, rubbing his hands together like a fly. Or a criminal mastermind. “Who’s hungry?”

Grantaire declined, seeing as he had just had dinner, but Enjolras said he could eat. Courfeyrac grabbed his phone, ready to order pizza, excitement on his face. Grantaire shook his head, and, on his way to the kitchen, he put a hand on Courf’s shoulder.

He looked up as Grantaire said, “Two pizzas, one with no anchovies.”

“Why?” Enjolras asked, his never ending stream of questions piercing Grantaire.

He frowned at Enjolras. “You don’t like fish.”

Enjolras’s face transformed, his eyes widening. He looked, for one reason or another, speechless, and Grantaire didn’t understand why. This shouldn’t have bothered him as much it did.

“Oh,” Enjolras said, tearing his gaze away from Grantaire. “That’s right. I don’t.”

“Great,” Courfeyrac cried. “Two pizzas, no anchovies. Is pineapple okay?”

“Sure,” Enjolras muttered, still nonplussed.

In the kitchen, Grantaire turned the cupboard upside down to find the tea bags, and put the kettle on, the water boiling reassuringly. The sounds of the kitchen always had a calming effect on Grantaire – maybe it was the fact that something was in the making.

“Do you like fish?”

Grantaire flinched, for the hundredth time today. “Jesus, Apollo, please announce your presence.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, his eyes dark and his cheeks pale. Grantaire frowned at him.

“Yes, I like fish fine. Is everything alright?”

“What did you study at the university?” Enjolras asked, ignoring his question.

“I was an Art and Classics major.”

“You had a double major?” Enjolras asked, almost sounding impressed. Well, fuck, it wasn’t like it was Grantaire’s intention to impress this person, this emptied-out version of Enjolras.

“Yes, Apollo, I did.” The water was boiling now, a cloud of steam rising above their heads. Grantaire poured it out, putting the bags in. The water was slowly colored a reddish color, spreading in the pot, embracing it.

“Was the dinner at Joly’s okay?”

“It was fine,” Grantaire said, the answers coming out of him quite automatically at this point. “I haven’t seen those guys in a long time.”

Enjolras hummed, mulling this over, then asking, and asking, and asking.

“Why did you move back here?”

Grantaire looked at him sharply. “Are you sure that’s your business?”

Enjolras looked back at him, unwavering. “I am not sure of anything.”

This small confession had Grantaire taken aback. He grimaced, opened his mouth, and what came out was the truth, even if he didn’t know it.

“The way I was living my life was no good.”

“So you came back.”

“So I came back,” Grantaire echoed. He was looking at Enjolras, knowing something (well, a lot of things) about him was off. Enjolras looked white as a sheet, his eyes restless, tracking every little movement.

“What’s wrong?”

Enjolras stared at Grantaire.

“You knew. Just now, you just knew I didn’t like fish on my pizza, like it was so natural, it was the first thing you thought of.”

Enjolras’ voice was rather accusatory, which Grantaire didn’t understand.

“Yes?”

“I know nothing about you,” Enjolras continued. “And you seem to know everything about me.”

Grantaire swallowed, a stinging in his eye. He blinked, hard.

“Pizza preferences are hardly everything.”

Enjolras smiled. “It’s not just that. It’s everything else, the look in your eye, the way you hesitate. There’s something about you.”

“Gee, tell me how you really feel,” Grantaire bit back, panic rising in him. He wanted this conversation to end, wanted this Enjolras to stop looking at him like that, like he could see right through him, because – because he _couldn’t_. He didn’t even know who he was.

Enjolras was gazing at Grantaire like he was trying to burn out the sun, terrible and silent.

(Almost blinding.)

“Are you guys coming? Pizza should be here in 40 minutes or so,” Courfeyrac shouted from the living room.

“I’m going to remember,” Enjolras said to Grantaire, and it felt like a threat.

Grantaire smiled at him, feeling this moment like thorns in his heart.

“Right.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has a proposition for Grantaire; meanwhile, Jehan expresses his love for disco-pop and has an obscure job.

Maybe disastrous fist dates were always followed by magnificent second dates, maybe that was a rule. Grantaire was not sure, he knew only one thing, and that was the way Enjolras laughed into his mouth, relieved, the way his hands touched him, shaky and close to reverent. He knew only thing, saw only one person, and that was Enjolras.

They became a hilarious story among their Friends, something they’d laugh about knowingly for weeks to come, and Grantaire couldn’t believe that this was all real, that he woke up to Enjolras lying next to him, his hair a glorious mess, his face patterned by the pillowcases.

Maybe he was just the luckiest bastard in the whole wide world.

And maybe they were more alike than anyone would have thought, this avenging angel and him, the underdog. They were both parentless, Grantaire having cut emotional ties with his family, and Enjolras an orphan. They hated reality television; they were alike in the way they were exact opposites of each other, like complementary colors washing into each other, creating some sort of harmony on the canvas.

The little dance they did around each other led to this; to bliss, to laughter, to Enjolras holding onto his hand in public, to walking the length of Paris. Grantaire never wanted it to end.

“Oh lord above,” Enjolras said one day, wrapping himself in the soft blanket on Grantaire’s couch. “Oh God it’s so cold out there. Don’t ever make me go outside again.”

Grantaire laughed, a horse-like sound that he no longer felt self-conscious about. Not around Enjolras.

“You were the one who wanted to go on this trip,” he reminded Enjolras. “I was all for staying in, watching you write angry essays.”

“Well, you’re always right,” Enjolras mumbled. “I will remember that.”

“Oh, please, you’ll forget it the minute we disagree on something.” Enjolras moaned, pulling the blanket tighter around him, disappearing underneath.

“Traveling is a mistake.”

“Calm down, Phileas Fogg,” Grantaire said, sitting down on the edge of the couch, poking the shape that hid Enjolras. “Going outside is a must, sadly. You gotta take your shit home, unpack and stuff. You have that thing with Feuilly later.”

“Ugh,” Enjolras said, beginning to stand up - then must have thought better of it, because he sat down, the blanket dropping in his lap. He looked at Grantaire with a new-found focus, his blue eyes striking. It still made Grantaire feel like he was jumping off a building, even after all this time.

“What if,” Enjolras said, and that sentence couldn’t possibly end well, “I unpack here?”

“Uh,” Grantaire frowned, “then all your shit would be here.”

“And what if all my shit was here,” Enjolras asked, giving Grantaire a significant look he really didn’t get.

“Then you’d have to navigate between my place and yours all the time. Wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said, sighing and putting his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Okay, R. Listen. What if we moved in together and you understood what I was saying?”

Grantaire looked up, wide eyes. “You… you want to move in together? With me?”

Enjolras shrugged, worrying his lower lip. “What do you think?”

“Dude,” Grantaire breathed, his stomach doing flips. It was honestly a miracle he could formulate words. “Man- that’d be _great_.”

“ _Man, that’d be great_ is the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” Enjolras said, smirking, but his eyes were bright like the sun. His snarkiness was a sign that he was probably spending way too much time in Grantaire’s company, and neither of them minded that one bit.

“Shut up,” Grantaire said, a smile spreading across his face, a living thing.

Enjolras smiled back at him, all goofy hope and something deadly serious.

“Are we really doing this?” He asked Grantaire softly.

“We really are, I guess,” Grantaire replied, and maybe it was as easy as that. He looked around. “And as smooth as that proposal was, my place is way too tiny for the two of us. So I guess yours would be the ideal solution. And I mean, I have a lot of stuff. No more study rooms for Enjolras. Sucks to be you.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras agreed, looking at Grantaire like he’d done something brilliant, and Grantaire won’t ever forget that look. “Sucks to be me.”

**

Grantaire woke up with the taste of Enjolras in his mouth, something fleeting before him that he wanted to hold on to, but what was already fading away into oblivion. He stretched in the dark, disoriented, not remembering where he was for a second, before the outlines of Courfeyrac’s guest room made themselves known to Grantaire.

He sat up, thinking about his dream. Grantaire hadn’t had a dream like that about Enjolras for a really long time, hadn’t had his subconscious deliver memories in his mind and replay them in the darkness. This was real, but it wasn’t – Grantaire remembered it, felt it, knew it, but it was also something ancient you locked away in the back of a closet or a museum.

Enjolras asking Grantaire to move in with him.

Enjolras didn’t remember any of that.

Enjolras was dead.

Three truths, or should Grantaire count again?

He didn’t want to open the blinders, didn’t want to go out there and start the day like it was expected of him. He didn’t want to go out and see Enjolras still there in the apartment. Grantaire was terrified of seeing Enjolras again, of being surprised by him standing there, looking at Grantaire like he was a riddle to be solved.

He took a deep breath, and a made a move.

The apartment was empty, loud with silence, and on the coffee table in the living room a note awaited Grantaire, with Courfeyrac’s childlike handwriting on it.

_Hey, R, good morning_ _J_ _Went to the theatre this morning, won’t be back til tonight, make yourself at home of course, make a mess, or what you will. haha get it. Enjolras went home to Combeferre’s._

_Courf_

Grantaire tore the note up, and left the pieces of it on the carpet. He refused to look at the last line. Maybe here, in the empty silence of this apartment, he could close his eyes and pretend that this whole thing was a dream, that he would soon wake up in his own place in Adamant, with Éponine cooking him breakfast.

Or maybe it would be even deeper than that, and Grantaire would wake to Enjolras snoring into his shoulder in their own place-

No.

This was real. Grantaire was real, and the pain he felt open inside his chest was real.

No one could take that away.

The silence wasn’t only in the apartment he was standing in, it was also in the tragedies of Grantaire, the hurting lines of his body, the unrested skin covering him, the unshaved face, the grey eyes. His silhouette was a ballad, danced and ancient, his hands next to his body were an elegy.

He looked down at the torn pieces of Courfeyrac’s note, and felt like he was standing in the middle of a black hole.

Last night, he endured Enjolras asking him questions about his life, thinking he could get Grantaire figured out at some point, looking at Grantaire with calculating eyes, not knowing he was cutting Grantaire, piercing him just by being there, and what the hell was Grantaire thinking?

There was no peace for him in Paris, no way to live a life separate from his past, because he would always be the Grantaire whose love was taken away, always be the man whose friends looked at him, half agony, half hope.

Grantaire could not change himself, and he could not pretend to live in another reality only because it would have been far more convenient.

Grantaire thought about Joly, Bossuet, even the lovely Cosette, all leading lives that were their own, all having something to live for – and what was Grantaire to them? He was a friend, a figure from the past, a nothing they still cared about, walking among them like the dead.

Here were the facts: Grantaire’s center had always been Enjolras, now he was ripped into parts he could no longer recognize. Grantaire was unloved, unwanted, without a purpose.

He used to be happy, and now he wasn’t.

He used to be an artist, and now he was an unemployed freeloader with a useless degree.

What he needed was a new horizon, something that was all him, and only him. Something that would keep him moving.

What was he going to do?

**

Jehan Prouvaire may have been surprised to see Grantaire on his doorstep, but he did not show it. He gave Grantaire a sweet smile.

“R. Hey there. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Grantaire looked at him, narrowing his eyes. “Are you free?”

“Well, I do have to get to work,” Jehan said, easy, closing the door behind him as he stepped out into the hall. “You can ride with me, if you want.”

“I want,” Grantaire said, following Jehan.

Jehan’s tiny blue car barely held the two of them, but it was cozy, and filled with different CDs. Grantaire had to grab a bunch so he would be able to sit in the passenger seat.

“ABBA Greatest Hits? Oh Jehan.”

“What? Don’t tell me that’s not awesome,” Jehan said, lightning the ignition, the car coming to life. “In fact, give that to me, it’s a real car ride jam.”

“I hope you know that there is no unironic way to listen to an ABBA song,” Grantaire said, staring.

“That’s such bullshit,” Jehan shook his head, smiling. “Listen to this.”

_No more carefree laughter_ , sang one of the women from the group, Grantaire could never tell which, and Jehan sang along passionately, gesturing with his hands as though he was conducting an orchestra.

_We just have to face it, this time we’re through._

“Breaking up is never easy, I know, but I have to go,” Jehan sang, belting out the notes like he was the one performing, and Grantaire couldn’t help but feel caught up by the atmosphere of it all, the goofy car ride-singing, the ridiculous lyrics, and the way Jehan even did the dramatic whisper bits.

It was kind of amazing, actually, and Grantaire felt really unironic as he tapped the rhythm of the song on his knees. There was this, there was friendship that felt long gone, but maybe Grantaire could get it back, just like that. Maybe he could be part of the lives of these people again.

Maybe next to them, he could be somebody again.

(Maybe there really was life after death.)

In the next couple of days, Grantaire rode with Jehan to the bookstore the poet worked at, he made it a part of his routine. They talked, they listened to music, they sat in silence in the Parisian traffic, and it was all white noise Grantaire loved to exist in. Jehan had always been a fascination, someone too interesting, too colorful to seem like a real person, and not just a quirky side character in a romantic comedy.

But here were the things about Jehan that were real: his knowing eyes, the animated feature of his mouth when he sang, the suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, his hands, large for such a small guy, soft except for the hard bits where he would hold his pen or type on his computer.

Jehan was a shop assistant, he was an extraordinaire, he was an unpublished poet. He was a warm thing in the mass of cold chaos. Grantaire asked him about his work at the bookstore, asked him about the hours, the pay, how he got it in the first place, and Jehan answered willingly, simply, words and truth pulled out of him quite easily.

“Are you looking for a job?” He asked Grantaire, something alive in his eyes. Something like that, Grantaire replied. He was certainly looking for something – it could have been a job. It could have been a red haired orphan singing on the streets of the cold city of NYC.

Jehan seemed to get excited by the promise of Grantaire going back to work.

“And what are you interested in doing?”

“Anything that will pay will pretty much do, I’m not picky.”

Grantaire would shrug it off nonchalantly, but the one thing he knew for sure that he didn’t want to do was art. He didn’t want to hold on to his youthful desire of becoming a painter, a children’s book illustrator, a guerilla artist. Grantaire was no longer the child who wanted those things, and he no longer had the someone who would encourage such dreams and musings.

“Oh, this is great, it’s exciting! I totally know a guy who can hook you up with a job. And it takes like, no time.”

“Neat,” Grantaire said, hollow, but he didn’t want to sound ungrateful. “Thanks, man.”

“R, it’s literally nothing. No, I did mean _literally_.”

“Oh god,” Grantaire said, smiling. “You’re a real party, Jehan Prouvaire.”

“I really, truly am.” Jehan was looking at the road as he drove through the city, but from the corner of his eyes, he kept shooting glances in Grantaire’s direction, words coming closer to the surface as he drew a breath.

Grantaire knew what he wanted to say even before he did.

“Grantaire-”

“It’s fine, Jehan.”

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about this-”

“You would be right, I don’t.”

Jehan nodded, turning the wheel.

“I saw him last night, when I went over to Combeferre’s place for a book,” Jehan said, and Jesus, it wasn’t like anyone asked. But he went on anyway. “It was… and eerie sight, still. I. I can’t imagine how this must be like for you, especially since. Well, since he doesn’t-”

Grantaire couldn’t believe this was happening. “I know, Jehan.”

“Of course. Of course you know, obviously. He, well. He looks different.”

Grantaire’s head jerked up as he turned to stare at Jehan. This was not what everybody has been saying about him.

“Does he?”

“Yes,” Jehan said, heartfelt. “Something about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Hmm.”

“He looks – so pure? Somehow? He looks _clean_ , like he did, like he did before _you_.”

“Before me,” Grantaire repeated, flat. Jehan nodded jerkily.

“Yes. So, listen, I understand why you wouldn’t want to, to see him. Like this. I’m sure you can tell too, that he’s not like he was.”

It took a moment for Grantaire to respond. “I’m afraid that I can’t tell. That I won’t be able to.”

“Grantaire,” Jehan said, stopping the car abruptly. They had arrived to the shop, parking just outside it. Grantaire hadn’t even noticed. “ _Grantaire_.”

“I’m scared, Jehan,” Grantaire confessed softly.

“Are you still in love with him? With Enjolras?” Jehan asked, and Grantaire couldn’t help but note how Jehan needed to clarify just whom he meant – he meant the Enjolras that _used to be._

“What kind of stupid fucking question is that?”

Jehan grimaced. “Just say it.”

“ _Yes_.”

The silence of the empty side street cut between the two of them, Jehan gazing at Grantaire solemnly, and Grantaire staring back, afraid, open, vulnerable.

“Okay,” Jehan said. “Let’s go inside. I’m gonna make you a delicious mocha if you buy a book. It’s new idea we have. In fact, I might make you some even if you don’t buy anything.”

Grantaire shook his head, incredulous.

“How have you guys not gone bankrupt yet?”

“We like living on the edge.”

**

“This is the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” Grantaire said to his cup. He glanced up at Jehan, who grinned at him from over the bookshelves.

“And it’s fair-trade, too.”

“Holy shit, rare edition book store with fair-trade coffee. It’s like you _want_ it to end.”

Jehan laughed, delighted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, friends.  
> Again, I stole a few lines from the TV show Friends, I hate myself. I have failed creatively. But just know that it's there.  
> Maybe not much happens in this chapter? But the next one is kind of heavy when it comes to plot and characters, so this is more of a breather I guess. But I love Jehan!! So this is my love letter to him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire will soon have to learn that going to house parties is not a good idea on any level.

 “Come to Combeferre’s tonight,” Courfeyrac said to him over the phone as Grantaire walked out of the bookstore. Outside it was chilly and windy, autumn truly taking its roots in the city, making Grantaire pull his coat more tightly around him.

“What.”

“I know it’s selfish to ask, Grantaire. But I’m asking anyway.”

Grantaire snarled at nothing.

“Everybody will be there, Joly and the guys, Bahorel. I get off at 7 and then I’ll be there too.”

“Don’t you have a show to do?”

“We’re dark on Mondays,” Courfeyrac replied, whatever the hell _that_ meant. Grantaire was paralyzed.

“Come see him. Come see _us_ , all of us together.”

Grantaire kept shaking his head, unable to stop.

“Why are you like this? Why are you asking me to-?”

“You can say no, R,” Courfeyrac said, calm as ever. “You can say no, and not come. You can just go back to the apartment and do nothing. In fact, you can just go back to Adamant if you want, it’s all the same, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you, Courfeyrac.”

“I love you, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said to him, ruthless, and Grantaire hated how their dysfunctional friend group would just declare love to each so easily, like it was nothing, like it was as easy as breathing. “We all love you, and even though you can say no, I’m still asking you to say yes.”

“I just saw him - _Enjolras_ – the other day, why-”

“You were looking past him. I want you to look at him, Grantaire, to see him.”

“ _I can’t_ ,” Grantaire croaked, broken and destroyed, the hand holding the phone to his ear half-frozen. “Why are you doing this?”

“This is for you.”

“Fuck that. This is way too painful.”

“That means it’s real,” Courfeyrac said, and fuck, no wonder he was such a good actor. His voice was a command. “If it hurts, then that means you haven’t given up.”

“Quit analyzing me, if you please. You don’t know shit-”

“Then tell me.”

Grantaire gaped, his words forsaking him.

“He- he is not, he’s not really-”

“If it’s not really Enjolras, then you can leave and move on. You can keep grieving him, you’ll be free to do so, all of us will be. But you don’t know, R. You don’t know if it’s him or not, and even you think that there’s a slight possibility that it could be him. That’s why you’re here in Paris.”

Fuck. Holy fucking hell, Grantaire couldn’t breathe. He was not ready for anyone to see through him like that, and Courfeyrac just fucking burned him with his insightful words. He said them like they were common knowledge, and not something dark Grantaire was trying to bury deep into the ground.

“Say yes, Grantaire. Let it hurt before you let it get any better.”

“I hope you burn in hell.”

“Don’t worry, I most certainly will. See you there!”

With a click, the line was dead, and Grantaire was standing alone on the cold street, wondering just how he was going to cover up the gaping hole in his chest, when all his friends, and _Enjolras_ were going to be there to see into the darkest parts of him.

**

“Grantaire.”

These days, everybody said his name like there was greater meaning to it, like it was a feeling and not just a combination of sounds. Combeferre was no exception as he stood there in the doorway, tall and soft, and looking almost relieved to be seeing Grantaire on the other side of the doorstep. Grantaire could hear the noise from the living room, the voices of The Friends mixed into a steady crescendo, and he swallowed hard.

“Hi there, Combeferre. Can I come in?”

“Oh,” Combeferre said, broken out his reverie, and he stepped aside so that Grantaire could enter, no turning back, no running away now.

They stood next to each other for a moment, and it reminded Grantaire of an ancient forest.

“How are you?”

Combeferre’s face looked ready to crumble for a moment as he looked at Grantaire, and the two of them really understood each other perfectly, it seemed.

“Oh, you know,” Combeferre said at last. “Same old, same old.”

Grantaire let out a breath through his mouth, attempting laughter. “Right.”

“He’s inside, with all of them,” Combeferre said, leaning closer to Grantaire like he was letting him in on a secret. “He’s still a bit shaken.”

“Shaken.”

“Yes, from – finding out about those two years. That he missed.”

Grantaire blinked. He shouldn’t have come here.

“I should go in, I guess.”

“Yes,” Combeferre agreed, his voice like wings fluttering.

Grantaire took a breath, wanting it to last for hours.

Inside, it was a crime scene. Their group of friends had already breathed the room too warm, and they spoke, chattered away on both sides of the room, letting Enjolras have the middle, like in that one painting of Leonardo.

_Enjolras_ was there, he was _there_ , and he seemed- sad. Alone. His eyes were cast down. The room was beating around him, like he was the core of it. Hate bubbled up in Grantaire’s mouth. He didn’t look different, not to him, not in the way he did to Jehan. This was what Grantaire had been afraid of.

He approached, greeting everyone loudly, and they all looked up at him, smiles and hopes and foolishness. Bahorel went in for a hug, and Grantaire let him, patting his back.

Enjolras looked up to the sound of his voice as well, his eyes focusing on Grantaire, like he was interesting, and not all grief and a broken past forced into the present. He smiled at Grantaire – how dare he.

“Hello,” he said to Grantaire, who flinched. Hearing Enjolras speak was like listening for a roar from the lion’s maw.

“Hey, Apollo,” he said, watching Enjolras frown. It was easier this way. “You look – drained.”

Enjolras looked grateful that Grantaire said it out loud. “I _am_ drained. It’s just, it’s been a hard couple of days. With everything.”

Grantaire didn’t need to be told that, but still, he couldn’t help the pity that kept rising in him as he looked at Enjolras, who looked so lost, even now, when he was supposed to be found. Even if it was all pretend.

“Shouldn’t you be talking it out with your friends?”

Enjolras looked at him. “ _You’re_ my friend.”

“And you know this how?” Grantaire hissed, involuntary.

Enjolras’ face went blank, as he took a sip from his drink. Grantaire did a double take.

“Are you drinking schnapps? Jesus Christ.”

“I know,” Enjolras said, resigned. “It tastes terrible.”

“Who even gave you that?”

“Bossuet said it was a big night.”

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Grantaire said, forceful, and Enjolras was staring at him, taken aback. Grantaire tried to laugh it off, but couldn’t because, well, _Grantaire._

“Why didn’t you tell him you didn’t want it?”

“I did tell him. He said it was nonsense, and that we should celebrate.”

“Sure, he comes out of the hospital, let’s give him alcohol we know he can’t handle, fuck.” Grantaire wasn’t even sure what was up with him, he hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Aggressive, territorial, these dark things sprung out of him at the sight of this Enjolras, and it wasn’t right. He should be backing off now.

“I guess I didn’t have to actually drink from it,” Enjolras said, defensive. “I must be having one of those nights.”

“Join the club, I’ve been having one of those nights for literal _years_.” Grantaire smirked, running a hand through his hair, trying to stop it from shaking. “Hah. I don’t suppose he gave you a cigarette as well?”

“Why, you need one?” Enjolras asked, looking at Grantaire, trying to decipher him, and Grantaire really, desperately needed a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked for months, but now, as he thought about the sweet nicotine burning its way into his lungs, he felt his stomach curl.

“I sure do,” he said. “Forget it, I’m gonna ask Cosette to give me one.”

He turned away from Enjolras, fast and sudden like he would jump away from a burn, and made a beeline to Cosette, whispering into her ear. She nodded, touching his arm as she fished out a box from her purse. Finally, Grantaire took the cigarette and a lighter, triumphant, and walked across the room, toward the double doors leading to the balcony, willing them to open.

“Why are these stuck,” he muttered, the unlit cigarette in his mouth, “why does nothing work ever?”

“You need to flick the lock at the bottom,” Enjolras said from somewhere behind Grantaire, because of course. The blond bent down, opening the doors with ease, and stepping aside to let Grantaire walk out.

Grantaire shivered as he stepped out to the balcony, his coat and scarf forgotten inside. He took the lighter, flames at his hands, and lit the cigarette. It burned with a slow, delicious manner. Breathing it in felt like living for a second there, and Grantaire felt like passing out. He groaned slightly as he smoked.

Enjolras must have followed him out here, because he was standing next to him now, a small distance between them as the blond leaned against the balcony bars, looking out over the darkness of Paris. The sounds of sirens, as always, could be heard from somewhere far from them.

Enjolras turned back slowly, looking over Grantaire, who must have been made of smoke by now. There they were, standing on a Parisian balcony: half a man and the shadow of his dead love.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Yeah. That’s the point though.”

“Because it means we’re alive?” Enjolras asked, sounding quite amused by that, and Grantaire almost choked, those words ending whatever momentary happiness the cigarette was bringing him.

“I don’t know about that, Apollo,” he said in a hollow voice.

“That’s not my name,” Enjolras shot back, seemingly confused by Grantaire’s changes of moods. So was Grantaire, so. Whatever.

“Trust me, I know what your name is.”

“Then why don’t you say it?”

“Why do you need me to say your name so bad?”

Enjolras grimaced, and fuck, was he actually going to answer that?

“It’s just that,” Enjolras began, “I feel really, really empty. I can’t explain it, like, like I have all these things inside of me that I should know about, that I should be able to remember, but. I can’t.”

Grantaire stared at the other man, face passive, and thought of Enjolras dying, bleeding out in the streets, a last smile on his face as he went out, like the sun, never to come back up.

“You should go back inside, Apollo. It’s too cold.”

**

Finishing his cigarette, Grantaire walked back into the warm living room that was alive with the voices of their friends. Enjolras was standing with his back to the wall now, staring out at all of them, something somber about him Grantaire’s didn’t like.

He averted his eyes when Enjolras looked at him.

_I feel empty_ , he had said to Grantaire, and why did he feel like he could trust Grantaire? What was inside the mind of this strange and haunting replica that was so much like the real thing? What did he think of when he looked Grantaire in the eye and asked him about his life? What was he thinking now, looking at their friends with an uneasy detachment in his blue eyes?

“Fuck,” Grantaire murmured, stretching, trying to reach the ceiling as he did so. His back was killing him, a numb but ever-present pain that wouldn’t go away.

When his traitorous eyes found Enjolras again, he was being chatted up by Courfeyrac, who must have just gotten here from the theatre. Grantaire walked closer to the pair, tuning in on their words.

“Why aren’t you talking to someone, chief?” Courfeyrac was asking, and that way of addressing hurt Grantaire somewhere deep inside his bones. Enjolras made a noncommittal sound.

“I just feel so strange, Courf. I feel like I know so little, I try, I’m trying to listen to what the others are saying.”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said in that soft voice of his that always made Grantaire feel like a pathetic mess. “Come back to us.”

Grantaire felt like he had been slapped.

Enjolras must have felt something similar, because he was looking at Courfeyrac like he had just seen a ghost, and wow, this was how Grantaire felt every time he had to look at Enjolras.

“You’re not still drinking that schnapps, are you?” Grantaire heard himself ask, and Enjolras seemed grateful for this intrusion.

“No, I. I put it down, like you said.”

“You really do hate alcohol,” Courfeyrac said, perking up, like this was a confirmation for something he was doubting. Grantaire didn’t even want to know.

Combeferre, who may have been hiding in his own apartment, appeared next to them out of the blue, and both Enjolras and Grantaire looked to him, for guidance, for something good and right to say.

Combeferre adjusted his glasses, a motion that seemed to soothe Enjolras.

“Are you going to the library tomorrow, Combeferre?”

“Of course, you know I always go on Thursdays.”

“I might walk with you,” Enjolras said. “You can tell me about the education reform from last year, there’s a lot I don’t understand.”

“Same,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras looked at him funny. Combeferre cleared his throat.

“Sure, come along. That would be- that would be fine.”

_Fine._ Not good, not great. Combeferre may have been as haunted by all of this as Grantaire was. _That would be fine._

“Come on, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, all cheery pleading. “Let’s sit with Feuilly, he has the _best_ story about Putin.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Enjolras’s face, and he followed Courfeyrac to the other side of the room where Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan sat, drinking and speaking much too loud.

Grantaire couldn’t help but go after them, ghosting over the table they sat at, feeling like a strange witness to something he wasn’t supposed to be seeing.

Enjolras and the others listened to Feuilly tell the story about Putin, gesturing and doing the voices, and they all erupted into laughter at the end, Enjolras too, a sound that cut deep into Grantaire. It was a living sound, something like a wound, something like music.

Grantaire watched silently as Enjolras became a part of it all, again or for the first time ever, Grantaire could not say. He watched his eyes brighten, his Greek profile all serious, his cheeks coloring up in the heat of the conversation. Enjolras nodded eagerly when he agreed with something, and pouted when he didn’t. The gestures he made with his hands got wilder as he got into a topic he cared about, his hair flying about.

It was the most terrible sight Grantaire had ever seen.

At one point, Bahorel burst into tears, and Courfeyrac followed suit, the two of them sobbing, grabbing each other’s arms. Combeferre looked stricken, Enjolras baffled, and Grantaire looked at Jehan, the two of them knowing and stone-faced.

“What, what is it?” Enjolras asked.

Bahorel shook his head, wiping off tears.

“We’re just, we’re so happy you’re back.”

“I never thought this would happen,” Courfeyrac added, his eyes red from crying, his face distorted, but something like a deep laughter was hidden in his features.

Grantaire wanted to crawl out of his skin.

Enjolras looked like he had just found out that the Conservatives were in power again, his face flush and terrifyingly alive in the evening light, his mouth opening and closing helplessly.

“I – yeah, me too.”

Combeferre cleared his throat, and Grantaire glanced in his direction. The man was frowning into his lap, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. Grantaire could see that his hands were clenched on his knees.

Grantaire felt a sudden urge to protect Combeferre, to shield him from whatever reminder or sappy comment he would have to hear from the others regarding what happened to Enjolras. They had all accepted Enjolras’ return like it was their second nature to accept wonder and inexplicable things, but Grantaire knew that Combeferre felt pierced by it all, he could see it in his eyes, in his quiet words. Combeferre had always been a man of reason, someone who had a lot of love to give and someone who had known Enjolras since they were children – but to see your best friend die and come back to life? No one could imagine just what that was like – no one except maybe Grantaire himself.

He and Combeferre were connected in this as well, and Grantaire felt the need to guard the other man now, from any more pain than what the both of them had to endure.

He felt torn; half of him wanting to cry, the other half staring ahead, unblinking.

“Let’s not get overly emotional,” Grantaire managed, not looking at any of them.

“Gran _taire_ ,” Courfeyrac said to him, like there was a hidden meaning behind that name, and Grantaire frowned. “It’s going to be _okay_ now.”

Grantaire froze. Courfeyrac wouldn’t start talking about him and Enjolras in front of – well, Enjolras himself, would he? Grantaire had always trusted him and always cared for him deeply, and he liked to think that being an emotional mess wouldn’t make Courfeyrac drop a truth bomb on Enjolras.

“What? What’s wrong with Grantaire?” God, of course Enjolras would latch onto any dropped comments like this like a hawk.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” he said icily. “Courf just had a bit too much to drink.”

Courfeyrac sniffed, sobering up from his meltdown. He patted Bahorel hard on the back.

“R is right, let’s not get too carried away there, friend.” Courfeyrac looked back at Grantaire, meeting his gaze, and Grantaire stared back at him evenly.

Enjolras snarled, and a for a moment there, he looked terrible and much like his old wild self.

“There is something you are not telling me. Don’t think I don’t know that.”

“Please, Apollo, there are many things we are not telling you,” Grantaire said, still looking at Courfeyrac. “There’s me, for instance. Why tell you anything? It’s not like you will remember.”

Everyone at the table seemed to gasp in unison, and like in the movies, the room was captured by a sudden stillness.

Enjolras frowned at Grantaire, his eyes blue and darkened.

“What a thing to say,” he said to Grantaire slowly.

“You will find I say many a thing that are not customary. Yesterday, I even _swore_ , imagine that.”

“Be serious.”

Grantaire smirked. “As if I could.”

He turned to walk away from them, from all of their lot, but Feully’s rise from his chair stopped him.

“Grantaire, I think you should apologize to Enjolras.”

Grantaire turned back slowly, facing them, but he only had eyes for Enjolras. He looked at that face and felt angry with himself for the myriad of things it made him feel. He hated this Enjolras and desired to stare at him constantly; he was afraid of him and felt sorry for him.

“Why? He didn’t apologize to _me_.”

Grantaire walked away.

**

“That was quite a show.”

Grantaire’s head jerked up. Combeferre was standing before him in all his birch tree glory, his eyes forsaken. Grantaire let out a harsh sigh.

“I know I shouldn’t have snapped like that, I. I just have all these mood swings of late, it’s not like I can control it-”

“I know,” Combeferre replied softly.

“-seeing him-”

“I know.”

“-and how everyone just seems to welcome him with open arms, like it’s easy. I’m just so angry, Combeferre.”

Combeferre only nodded this time. Grantaire gathered he really did understand.

“He makes me so angry.”

“I make you _angry_?”

Grantaire and Combeferre both turned in the direction of the voice, and Grantaire winced. It was Enjolras standing near them, his face hurt, and beyond that, just confused.

Enjolras opened his mouth, he was going to say something again and Grantaire couldn’t have that. He beat him to it, and when he spoke, he spoke quickly.

“Apollo I know I shouldn’t have acted like that in there, I’m sorry.”

“Grantaire-”

“It’s not your fault at all, I’m just in bad place right now, really. I’m going to make it up to you.”

“Let me just-”

“How about getting you a drink that isn’t schnapps? Because everybody in this godforsaken apartment should already know that alcohol does not so good things to you.” The last bit came out as a half-aggressive shout, and Grantaire really needed to manage his mood better than this, he thought.

He was doing nothing more than confusing this brand new Enjolras, which wasn’t really what he wanted. He didn’t know why he had gotten so mad just then – was he really mad at Enjolras? Himself? The others?

It could have been all of the above, for all Grantaire knew. Besides, it wasn’t like he blamed Enjolras for not being the one Grantaire had lost – at least not on any conscious level. He thought. He hoped.

The anger he had felt just a few minutes ago transformed into a blinding light in his chest, and Grantaire wanted to be kind to Enjolras, kind to Combeferre, better and softer to all of their friends. Enjolras – his Enjolras – would have wanted Grantaire to be better. He would look fondly at Grantaire now, a soft excitement revealing itself in his blue eyes.

That hurt. Grantaire probably shouldn’t have thought of that.

“I’m tired,” said Combeferre. Enjolras looked at him, his face growing as tender as Grantaire had ever seen it.

“Do you want to call it a day? Should I tell the others to leave?”

His questions only seemed to make Combeferre even more exhausted.

“I’ll tell them to leave,” Grantaire said, breathing in. “They already hate me anyway.”

“They don’t hate you,” Combeferre protested weakly.

As Grantaire made his way toward the door however, Courfeyrac appeared in the doorway, peaking in. His face was cautious as he looked at Grantaire.

“Hey, guys? It’s been. A long day and – and week – for all of us, so. We’re just going to take off now, let you rest. R – are you coming with?”

Grantaire sighed.

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac cried, his face brightening. “It’s gonna be great – we can be nap buddies. Or, you know, something less creepy-sounding.”

Grantaire attempted a smile. “Great. I’ll be right out.”

“Okay then,” Courfeyrac said, waving bye to Enjolras and Combeferre. They waved back, and then it was the three of them in the room again.

“I guess the non-alcoholic drink will have to wait, Apollo.”

“You can stay,” Enjolras said, and it wasn’t the first time he had been open to getting to know Grantaire or whatever, but still, Grantaire felt utter surprised every single time.

Grantaire had his back to Enjolras when he said to him, “Nah. Combeferre is tired.”

And God knows, so was Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with a vengeance. Anyway, I had the best time editing this chapter, because I actually forgot most of what I had written, and reading it was like reading somebody else's work. I hope you guys like it too, love y'all.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bummer.

During the whole way to the apartment, Courfeyrac was talking to Grantaire.

About what, well, that was the million-dollar question. Grantaire wasn’t really listening.

He felt emptied out, like someone had carved out all meaningful parts of him.

He just felt so drained, so unbelievably tired, but he felt like this wasn’t the kind of tired you could just sleep off and be done with it.

Two Enjolrases existed in his mind now, which exhausted the inside of him and left him aching for more, for answers, for a way to stop thinking about two people like they were one and the same.

(You are so beautiful.)

(You can stay-)

This was completely impossible.

Grantaire wasn’t even entirely sure how any of this could be happening on any level, how it was that they weren’t losing their minds over the fact that someone who they buried came back to life as though nothing had happened.

They weren’t characters in a supernatural pulp novel, after all, and Grantaire was tired. He was tired of trying to make sense of it all – waking up every day and thinking about how the day may involve Enjolras in any way was a sensation that he had not felt in a long time, it became a gaping hole inside of him, and every new morning attempted to fill that hole inside Grantaire, but all it did was make him more aware of it being there in the first place.

Enjolras – the Enjolras Grantaire had loved – was a miracle all on his own. He stood tall, and spoke hotly and with compassion about people he didn’t even personally now. He cared about everything and everyone, he was like the warm summer night sky, covering the earth into soft oblivion. That was what Grantaire had loved. That was what he loved still.

Of course, there was the obvious matter of his Enjolras knowing who Grantaire was – Enjolras knew the size and shape of him, he knew his smiles and he knew his anguish. He was kind and sweet to Grantaire after a hard day, and he was rough and loud when Grantaire needed to be shouted at. Enjolras would look at Grantaire like he was a direction and a sight he was used to, and yet he couldn’t look away.

Grantaire’s fists clenched at his sides. He hadn’t even realized how particular that look was, and how much he loved it, until he saw this new Enjolras look at him like he was an enigma, like he was something yet to be known.

It made Grantaire feel lost in his skin – something that used to reassure him and strengthen him (Enjolras’s gaze) now left him unanchored and unknowable.

This Enjolras had no idea who Grantaire really was. He assumed Grantaire was his friend, sought him out in a way that suggested he wanted to learn more about Grantaire, wanted to remember him. But maybe Grantaire didn’t want to be something that needed to be recalled by force – maybe he wanted to be something that was always present, something that was unforgettable. He had thought that he already _was_ that to Enjolras, but life, once again, proved him wrong.

All the while, impossible musings tortured Grantaire:

Would he have felt differently if this Enjolras had never forgotten him? If he had seen Grantaire in that hospital room and looked at him in their old way, if he had smiled at Grantaire like he used to? If he had still loved Grantaire, would have Grantaire loved him in return? Could he pretend that the last two years had never happened, could he have gone back to loving Enjolras, to seeing him breathe in and out, to waking up next to him every day?

Oh, but Enjolras didn’t remember him. Grantaire could not change that fact, and he sure as hell couldn’t ever forget about it.

But then here was this knot still to be untied: did he not remember Grantaire because he had never loved him, had never known him? Or did he really only have amnesia?

Was this the Enjolras that used to be Grantaire’s? Was this too good to be true?

Grantaire touched his index finger to his forehead.

Tonight, Enjolras looked to Grantaire and hoped to find a friend in him. But Grantaire was never really a friend to Enjolras. It was always more complicated than that. Grantaire developed a ridiculous crush on Enjolras the moment he first saw him, and then proceeded to turn said crush into ridiculous being-in-love-with-Enjolras, which complicated things ever further.

That day when they drove across town in his car, Enjolras told him that he felt the same way about Grantaire, that he always had, and there was no stopping the two of them after that. There was nothing that could make Grantaire turn his back on something that he wanted so much, and God knows this was true about Enjolras as well.

And to think it was a cheesy pick up line that started it all! The words that Grantaire had said on that first day were echoed back to him by Enjolras months later, and it was a combination of words that meant something to the both of them.

Grantaire would never forget it – and Enjolras would probably never remember.

Tonight, something in him ached to tell Enjolras that he wasn’t really a friend. He desired to tell the other man that Grantaire used to be more than that – that he used to be someone who knew Enjolras’ body intimately, who knew what Enjolras would say even before he said it, who knew every small feature of Enjolras’s face.

He wanted to scream it into the blond’s face or whisper it into his ear, but this was a secret that lived in Grantaire like guilt, and he could never burden Enjolras with it.

“I went by the cemetery this morning,” Courfeyrac said.

Grantaire, broken out of his reverie, stared at Courfeyrac with dead eyes. _The cemetery_. How could he, Grantaire, forget about something like that? If going to Enjolras’ grave didn’t prove that he was in fact gone, nothing would. Grantaire hadn’t been to that grave since the funeral, but he could map it out in his mind right now, he could walk there in his sleep and still find his way with ease.

Yes, the cemetery. Something real and cruel that proved that Enjolras was dead and six feet under the ground.

“And?”

Courfeyrac looked at Grantaire like he knew everything about him.

“I couldn’t find the grave.”

“What,” Grantaire hissed. “Did you forget where it was? The plot number-”

“I know what it is, R. I know where the grave is supposed to be. What I’m saying is that it wasn’t there.”

A thick grey cloud was fogging Grantaire’s mind. It felt like falling.

“What are you-”

“I went to the right place. I talked to the caretaker. We looked at the records. It’s not there, Grantaire. The grave is not there, there is nothing there but undisturbed grass.”

(Enjolras is dead Enjolras is dead Enjolras is)

Grantaire was falling through the sky. The horizon screamed as he crashed into the sea, the waved pulling him under, filling his lungs. The water was dark and cold, and Grantaire couldn’t see, not for the life of him. For a moment there, he thought that maybe someone was reaching for him, that they were calling his name ( _R? Grantaire, are you okay? Jesus Christ_ ), but then there was nothing but blackness.

(It’s not there.)

**

“Screw this. I’m going there.”

“Éponine,” Grantaire breathed into the phone. “You don’t have to come here. You have a job.”

“I’m a bartender, not the fucking prime minister, Grantaire! They can do without me.”

“Really, it’s-”

“I mean, fuck, you pass out on the street, and Courfeyrac has to carry you up? What the hell, Grantaire?”

“I was just. Really shocked.”

“Don’t get me wrong, that shit is impressive. Did he carry you in his arms? Were _your_ arms clasped around his neck? Was he-”

“Éponine.”

“Sorry, yeah. Not important. Plus, not that you know. You were fucking _passed out_. Jesus Christ, Grantaire, obviously I have to go there. I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t know that you’re taking care of yourself.”

“I _can_ take care of myself, okay? But what Courfeyrac said-”

“I know. But this, this changes everything, doesn’t it? It changes things about Enjolras-”

Grantaire closed his eyes. He tried to control the shivers rocking his body.

“I don’t know, I. I can’t really think about that right now.”

There was a slight pause in their conversation as Éponine took a deep breath.

“Okay. I get it.”

“…Thanks, Éponine.”

“I’m still going though.”

“You don’t-”

“See you tomorrow,” she cried, and then hung up the phone.

Grantaire struggled for air. Courfeyrac really did have to carry him up to the apartment, seeing as Grantaire was completely useless, and most of all, unconscious.

He could still feel that blackness inside of him, concentrating in his chest, pushing and pulling from within. Enjolras’ grave was not where it supposed to be. It wasn’t anywhere.

What did this mean?

It didn’t mean anything – it didn’t have to. Enjolras still wasn’t the same person that he was -  had been. He still didn’t remember Grantaire. He still didn’t love him.

Courfeyrac should just stop giving out harsh truths to Grantaire, and mind his own business, Grantaire thought to himself. Who was he even, to meddle in Grantaire’s life, to tell him what to do?

_Do the others know?_ Grantaire asked him when he came to, after the very first wave of shock.

_They didn’t need to be told. You did._

Like, what the hell was this cryptic shit. Courfeyrac was so fucking dramatic, Grantaire really wanted to smack him sometimes, but – he did understand what Courfeyrac meant, sort of. All the others welcomed Enjolras, ready to love him the way they did before two years ago – except Grantaire. And, not to forget it, Combeferre. Combeferre was still hesitant, still pained by what he knew and what he felt.

None of this changed what was real: that Grantaire was broken. He knew this, deep down in his darkest parts, had known it all along, it was just the words that he was at odds with. He was broken, he was incomplete, and he couldn’t love the way he once could.

Even if this was all a beautiful dream, and Enjolras was alive again, Grantaire still wouldn’t be able to love him the way he wanted to. That part of him was ruined by what happened two years ago.

It wasn’t that Grantaire didn’t want to be fixed, it was just that he didn’t know how – and why. What was the point really? Enjolras, even if he was real, was not someone for Grantaire to love. And he wouldn’t, he couldn’t – he had an Enjolras once, and that love would not be smeared by something trying to _mimic_ it.

He desperately wanted to protect the memory of Enjolras, the memory that lived inside of him, true like honey on his mouth.

He also secretly wanted to show some of himself to this new Enjolras, to reveal something about himself – which was beyond insane. It was some masochistic bullshit, which, typical.

Classic Grantaire.

**

His phone rang in the middle of the night.

“What?”

“Did I wake you?”

Enjolras’ voice was small and cautious over the phone, and it made Grantaire sit up immediately. He had never felt more awake.

“No, I was. No. What is it, Apollo?”

“Hmm. Just checking in.”

“Right. Why aren’t you sleeping?” _Where has your grave gone? Where are you?_

“I can’t sleep. I just – my mind never shuts up.”

“I guess I know the feeling.” Grantaire leaned back against the wall. There was something painfully familiar about talking to Enjolras during the night, all hushed voices and quietness. Grantaire didn’t really want to dwell on it.

“I just keep thinking – how much of my time left am I wasting by this, this stupid physical need to sleep?”

His heart stopped.

“What?”

“Two years, Grantaire,” Enjolras confessed into the phone, and it was like he was speaking directly into Grantaire’s ear. His voice was heavy with a strange kind of despair. “I was out – gone – for that long. I missed two whole years, and the whole of _you._ I don’t want to miss any more.”

_The whole of you_. This sentence made Grantaire shiver.

Apollo, he wanted to say, but what came out was a bit more honest and a bit more terrifying.

“ _Enjolras_.”

The other man let out a breath.

“Never mind, I don’t want to bother you. I guess I really should sleep.”

“Do you want me to come over?” The words flew out of him before Grantaire could think better of it, and now they hung between the two of them like a song.

For a moment, silence. Then, “I don’t want you to go into the trouble.”

“But do you want me to?” Grantaire wasn’t even sure what answer he was hoping for. ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ both tasted like damnation.

Enjolras didn’t respond for quite some time, and then, like a breath, “ _Yes._ ”

Outside, it was cold, and Grantaire didn’t even see where he was going. He could only listen to his own heart, pounding hard in his chest.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's night and it's Enjolras, and Grantaire is awake.

On his way to Combeferre’s place, a scene from long ago played in the back of Grantaire’s mind; triggered by Enjolras’ words to him. _I can’t sleep._

“Enjolras, what are you doing?” The words came from a Grantaire who no longer existed, someone who was lying in bed with another Enjolras, someone who was in love. This Grantaire’s hope was a soft thing inside of him. He sounded muffled against the pillows.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re positively tossing. And turning. That too.”

Enjolras sighed, turning to his side, facing Grantaire in the dark.

“Sorry. I just. I can’t sleep.”

Grantaire shifted closer to the other man, running a finger over his cheekbone. His eyelids were heavy, his skin tight on his face, but it didn’t matter – sleep wouldn’t come to him now, not until Enjolras was peaceful and quiet in his dreams again.

“Is it something I said?” It was supposed to be a joke of some kind, but Enjolras pursed his lips in a way that was all too familiar. “Oh man, is it really?”

“It’s not like that. It’s just what you said yesterday, about the uni possibly looking out for our rally, and how they might prevent students to actually partici-”

“I said that to Feuilly,” Grantaire stated, frowning. “You could hear that?”

“I can always hear you,” Enjolras sighed.

“Not so sure if that’s a good thing, Apollo.”

“Ugh, please don’t call me that.”

Grantaire grinned. “Sorry.”

Enjolras was facing the ceiling now, his eyes awake with something wild and restless. Grantaire, though he no longer felt like he was in the presence of an ethereal creature (he knew Enjolras too well for that by now), couldn’t help but stare. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he took in his lean figure, the messy curls on his head, and the way the pale light from the moon bathed him in something unspeakably soft. There were no words for the way it made Grantaire feel, to see him, to feel his weight next to him in bed. No words, just the one: Enjolras.

Enjolras.

Enjolras.

**

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered into the door. The name was like a river – once he had said it, it came pouring through the dam, flooding everything in its wake. It just kept coming to Grantaire, crept upon his lips and into his mouth, begging to be said.

Grantaire wanted to cradle that name; a notion which left him helpless.

The door opened as if hesitant, and Enjolras peaked out; when he saw who it was (because who else was going to visit in the middle of the night?), he opened the door wide, letting Grantaire in.

There was a moment of silence as the two of them stood there awkwardly, not quite sure how to proceed. They silently decided that it was best to go inside. Combeferre’s living room was quiet and still in the night, and the almost see-through curtains flooded the room in a strange sort of light that must have been coming from the moon.

 Grantaire looked away from Enjolras and around the room, quite involuntarily. He had, of course, been in Combeferre’s apartment countless of times, memories that now came calling to him as he surveyed the place. Every chair, every book case, every piece of the wooden floor brought up a livid picture in his mind – some old, and some, like the memory of Enjolras drinking alone and looking up at Grantaire, quite new.

He scoffed. Enjolras, who had been staring at him without a word, raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

“No-thing,” Grantaire replied, drawling the word. “It’s just – why would anyone have white curtains?”

“Why not? I like white.”

“That’s not the point – they let all the light in! If your curtains aren’t going to keep out the light, then what’s the point of having them?”

“…Maybe there’s no point.”

This was such a surprising thing to say that Grantaire couldn’t help his breath catching in his throat. He looked at Enjolras, who seemed quiet, solemn in the blue light of the room, his eyes betraying a sunken quality Grantaire couldn’t really associate with him. He felt a tightening in his chest.

_You look so sad._

_Are you real?_

“And anyway,” Grantaire went on, licking his lips. “If you’re going to have curtains, you gotta make them a disgusting color. It’s, like, a law.”

“My curtains are brown,” Enjolras whispered. “Or – they _were_ brown, I guess. Back when I had an apartment. Rather a disgusting color, I have to say.”

“Oh yeah, I _hated_ those curtains.”

“Oh.” Enjolras stared at Grantaire, eyes wide. “You. You know this. The ones I mean? In the bedroom?”

The bedroom curtains. Good God. Grantaire wanted to tell Enjolras that he knew those curtains intimately, that he had seen them, touched them, felt them with his fingers; that if there was one thing Grantaire could recall without hesitation was Enjolras’s bedroom and the curtains in it. He wanted to tell Enjolras that he used to fall asleep staring at those curtains, that he used to share that room and that bed with Enjolras, that it was their own room, for just the two of them.

He wanted Enjolras to know these things. To know Grantaire, like he once had, because that would mean that this was real, and Grantaire could stop fighting it. He could just let it all in.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said instead. He scratched his forehead nervously. “They really were disgusting. See? A law.”

Enjolras nodded at him, like he wasn’t so sure just what to say to that, what to say to him, Grantaire. Grantaire didn’t really understand why it was that Enjolras seemed almost comfortable in his company – he was, after all, only a stranger to Enjolras. A nobody. He was a weirdo who knew what Enjolras’ curtains looked like.

“Why did you let me come over here, Enjolras?”

Enjolras, who seemed to notice that Grantaire had started calling him by his real name, looked at him. “You asked.”

“Yes. But why did you let me? Why would the presence of a strange man be comforting to you? That’s what I’m trying to understand.”

“You’re not a strange man. You’re Grantaire.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t _mean_ anything, does it? I could have said that my name was Big Blue Frog, and you would have been none the wiser.”

“It is highly unlikely that your parents would name you Big Blue Frog.”

Grantaire groaned. “Enjolras.”

“I don’t know, all right? I don’t know. There’s something about you, I’ve told you this before.”

“I’m going to need more than that. Look, you wake up after – a long ass time – and you have all these friends welcoming you back, friends you know and care about. And there’s me, the weird guy you don’t remember. See the flaw in your logic?”

“But it’s not – they all look at me so differently.” This surprised Grantaire.

“Do they?”

“Yes. They, they – it’s like they are all expecting something of me. Like they’re waiting for me to do something. I can’t explain it, it’s something in their eyes. I, just, ugh. You don’t.”

Grantaire was so confused.

“I don’t what?”

“You don’t look at me like they do.” Enjolras looked helpless, his hands wild in his gestures. Grantaire hated this.

“Just how do I like at you?”

“Like – I don’t know. I’ve never been looked at that way before.”

Jesus Christ.

“Look,” Grantaire said, laughing darkly, “you’re not making any sense. Your friends missed you and they love you, and you turn to the local loner for help?”

“Weird guy. Local loner,” Enjolras said, repeating the words like they were in a foreign language. “You keep describing yourself like this. Why?”

“That’s, that’s hardly the point-”

“Are we friends?”

Grantaire sighed. He couldn’t really avoid direct questions like this. Enjolras was not to be played.

“Not really.”

“Then what are we? Why won’t you tell me?”

“I don’t want to spoil the ending,” Grantaire smiled. Enjolras huffed, frustrated.

“I’m going to figure it out,” Enjolras said, his voice a force to be reckoned with. “I’m going to remember. I promised, didn’t I?”

“Was that a promise though?” Grantaire asked, shrugging. “Or was it a warning?”

“Why would it be a warning?” Enjolras asked, his frown making him look serious and almost disdainful in the night. It reminded Grantaire of their old arguments, and it hurt him in a thousand tiny places. “Did you do something terrible?”

(You’re so beautiful.)

“Not really, no.”

“Then I don’t get it.” Enjolras threw his hands up, like he was begging him. Grantaire backed away on instinct.

“You still haven’t answered my question. Is that why I’m here then? Because I’m not the others? Because you want to figure me out? Is this _fun_ for you?”

“It is literally the opposite of fun, _Jesus_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras was getting rather angry now, his face turning a delicious crimson. “Why are you so defensive?”

“Why did you call me here?”

“Why did you offer to come?”

“I don’t- fuck, I don’t know. This was – this was a bad idea. I’m just gonna go, before we wake poor Combeferre-”

“No, please. Don’t go, okay? Just – stay.” Enjolras must have moved, because he was standing closer to Grantaire now, his eyes like the depth of a flame. Grantaire swallowed.

“So you want me to stay.”

“Yes.”

_Why_ was the one word that everything in Grantaire was screaming out for, but there was no use voicing it again. Enjolras couldn’t answer. He didn’t know. And Grantaire was so, so tired.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Grantaire nodded. “But I’ll have to watch some crappy late night television, because I’m about as sleepy as you on a caffeine overdose, so.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, his entire posture softening, and Grantaire wanted to forget everything he had ever known. It was not fair that this could actually be Enjolras. It was not fair that this couldn’t be the Enjolras he used to know.

**

Grantaire stayed there, curled up on the couch in the all-too-light living room until dawn. Enjolras was asleep on the floor, looking peaceful, but also unsettling – Grantaire had to check if he was breathing every five minutes or so, and this conduct made it impossible for him to get any sleep. Every time he could feel the other man’s breath on his hand though, he felt sleeping wasn’t all that important anyway.

 So he just sat there, watching the morning light break, and wondered why it was that Enjolras could fall asleep with him so close. He tried not to read anything into it. It used to be natural for the two of them to soothe each other in a way that no one else could, but this was decidedly different. This was unfamiliar territory to both of them.

Grantaire breathed in and breathed out, something forceful inside his body. He listened to Enjolras breathe and let out a snort every other second, and he wondered how he got here.

He lost the love of his life two years ago, lost him to something dark and red and inexplicable, and Grantaire hadn’t been himself ever since. Grief ate at him, consumed him like a monster, and he just let it happen. His life for the past two years had felt like a dream to him, a nightmare in which things didn’t have a reason or an order for happening. They simply _were_ , the way Grantaire simply _was_ : tragically, and quite madly flowing in the stream. Paris, The Friends, the university quickly and indistinguishably became Adamant, Éponine, and the nights he spent locked inside his place.

Survival became the thing he chose to achieve each day, but here was some truth: Grantaire didn’t even care if he lived or if he died. There was no Enjolras, there was no sun – how could he go on? How could anyone expect him to continue with his life?

And now here he was, sitting in Combeferre’s apartment with a version of Enjolras lying at his feet. The sun was coming up, and Grantaire felt softened by it all, as though living through the night meant getting revelations in the long awaited morning.

He looked down at Enjolras, pained and pierced by what he saw, but he also felt cleansed by the sight. At the end of the day, here was Enjolras, the looks, the voice, his memories – well, the majority of them. And who was Grantaire to call that anything less than divine?

Maybe Enjolras wasn’t the Enjolras Grantaire had loved, but he was still here. He was still alive again, there was no bullet wound on his body, there was no grave marking his departure from this world.

Maybe this was just one of those things that you had to accept and live with.

Maybe Grantaire could do that.

It’s a miracle, Cosette had said to him, it’s truly a miracle, sobbed Courfeyrac into his shoulder the other night, but they were all wrong. Grantaire had already experienced a miracle; it was Enjolras himself and the fact that he had fallen in love with Grantaire. They had their own little miracle, however brief it was, and it changed Grantaire forever.

He would never be the same. And the thing was, he didn’t even want to be. He was Grantaire: the pain, the jokes, the love, the grief, the way it hurt to look into the past. All of these things made up the person he was today, and nothing could change or take that away.

He had Enjolras for a good while, Grantaire let him touch him and burn him, let Enjolras leave a hole in Grantaire when he died.

Grantaire could feel that hole now, and it was a part of him. It wasn’t something to be fixed.

_He_ wasn’t something to be fixed.

It was high morning by the time Combeferre emerged from his own bedroom, faltering for a moment as he took in the scene of Grantaire on the couch, his eyes heavy, and Enjolras, still asleep on the floor, hugging a pillow.

“It doesn’t matter that I’m incomplete,” Grantaire said.

Combeferre nodded.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gets a job, and also has lunch! Such exciting things occur. Unbelievable.

Grantaire was going to live again.

He was on his way back to Courfeyrac’s apartment, breathing in the fresh morning air of Paris, admiring the trees and their colorful leaves, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Where are you, loser?” Grantaire grinned into the nothingness, feeling so relieved that he could cry.

“Hi, Éponine.”

“Hi. Where are you, still in denial?” Éponine’s voice sounded nonchalant, but Grantaire could tell she was and had been really worried about him. She really was the greatest friend ever. It was probably stupid of her to take on a basket case like Grantaire, but there was no accounting for taste.

“No, I’m. No. I’m really not, I guess.”

“Really?” Éponine said after a pause. Grantaire took a deep breath.

“Really.” A light breeze hit his face. “I’m out, just on my way home – back to Courf’s apartment, that is.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m working on it. Or I want to start.”

“ _Dude_.”

“Yeah, crazy. Listen, I sort of want to get a job?”

“Ah, man, don’t do it. It’s a trap, don’t buy into the capitalist bullshit fed to us by the government.”

“Yeah, but see, as nice as being a freeloader has been, I do sort of want my own things now and I’m going to need my own money for that, so.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started about fucking money.”

**

Having Éponine back by his side again, Grantaire felt stronger than he had in a while. She took the last train to Paris last night, and traveled through the whole country just to see Grantaire and take care of him, and maybe that was a miracle of its own. Maybe there were more than one miracles in a lifetime.

Looking for a job was a pain in the ass, but it was such a mundane thing, Grantaire felt grounded by the mere concept of it. Éponine searched the internet with a vengeance, and he went through every newspaper he could find.

“What do you even want to do?”

“Man, I don’t know. Anything that pays and is willing to take me on would be neat, I guess.”

“So, basically, anything from cleaning floors to selling your body?”

“Yeah, put down selling my body. I want to do that,” he deadpanned.

“That would pay so well, though. Like, maybe just consider it?”

They didn’t talk about Enjolras. They didn’t talk about anything that was going on with Grantaire, and he was very grateful for that. He just wanted to be _alive_ again, he wanted to have a job and air and a friend or two. He wanted to wake up and not be pulled down by the same monster over and over again.

Grantaire had kind of forgotten about talking to Jehan about working, but Jehan obviously hadn’t. He called Grantaire a couple of day later, asking him why he hadn’t gone to Jehan at once, and if he wanted, he could have a place in the bookstore any time.

And Grantaire _definitely_ wanted a place. Especially if said place was just offered to him out of the blue in an obscure bookstore on its way to bankruptcy.

So this was how it was: Grantaire was going to work at the bookstore with Jehan. He was going to have a job again. He was going to be a person again, and as he watched Éponine push grapes into her mouth that night in front of the television, laughing, Grantaire thought that it had been entirely too long.

He thought of his time in Adamant and felt it like a tear in his heart; it was never really a life. He went there being broken in the first place, and all he did in that town was keep breaking, holes in him that no stitches could keep together. Enjolras died, and in a way, so did Grantaire. It was pathetic and it was unhealthy, but it was _true._

Grantaire was not-alive, and so was the way he continued to love Enjolras, broken, dark, rough around the edges. The brokenness in him translated into everything that he did, and he felt this now like shame in his mouth. He loved Enjolras so cruelly, so badly, after he was gone, when once, back in the day this love was the light in Grantaire, and the very air he breathed. But it transformed into something that was to be hidden away.

Grantaire thought of Enjolras, of every Enjolras, alive, dead, young, old. He thought of the curl of his lips when he smiled, the coldness of his furious blue eyes, the strength in his shoulder when he walked his rallies. Enjolras was always something pure, and Grantaire ruined that by ruining himself, by losing a part of him in his grief.

He thought of the Enjolras he guarded in his sleep a couple of nights ago, thought of the way his chest rose and fell, the way his hair fell into his eyes. God, he was so alive, so _real_ , and how could something this effortlessly beautiful be a cruel joke played on all of them?

Grantaire stiffened in his reverie. He wanted to believe. He wanted to hope. It was just… he didn’t think there was a point to thinking he got a second chance at being with Enjolras, because he generally thought that wasn’t was this was about. Yes, he was indeed given a second chance – at being _himself_ again, at being alive again.

Because the thing was, Grantaire used to be something pure, too. Sarcastic, foul-mouthed, yes, but also young and childlike and full of love and belief he wished desperately to hide from the world. He used to be full of something white and big and quiet, and it was Enjolras, his Enjolras, who opened that part of him, who invited it to sit with him in the sunlight.

Grantaire missed that. He missed being that soft, that kind; he missed being that friend to Joly or Cosette or Courfeyrac, he missed being so much lighter and so much younger.

But now, Grantaire felt, he was heavy and he was old, and there was no going back to who he was, because second chances didn’t work like that. He could, however, be a new Grantaire. He could be better. He could be sweeter. He could never be the boy who Enjolras had fallen in love with, but he could very damn well try to resemble that person.

Enjolras had said that the Grantaire-that-was was beautiful – Grantaire wanted to be beautiful again. Not for anyone, but for himself.

Besides, Éponine deserved a friend who was better, and more alive.

**

On the morning of Grantaire’s first day in the bookstore, Courfeyrac was waiting for him in the kitchen, leaning against the sink, the morning sun tangling itself in his brown hair, and he looked like a peaceful lion.

Grantaire halted his movements slightly when he caught sight of him, but then proceeded to walk into the kitchen. Courfeyrac was watching him silently as he poured coffee into a mug.

“So,” Courfeyrac offered smoothly.

“So,” Grantaire echoed, decidedly less smoothly.

“You’re a working man in the city.”

“I guess. Or I’m about to be.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes gleamed. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Fuck, Courf, why?” Grantaire asked, laughing nervously. “I’m just trying to-”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Courfeyrac said, turning to face Grantaire with his whole body, tall above the other man, which would have been kind of intimidating if he didn’t look quite so friendly. “And I’m saying I’m really happy about it. I just want you to be back. Full time. We all do.”

Grantaire looked at the floor, his stupid eyes filling with tears.

“The way I left – back then – it was, I was-”

“I know. _We_ know. Nobody is mad at you about that, R. Or about _anything_. Okay? Don’t think that for a moment.”

“But I shouldn’t have-”

“We understand, we always have, Grantaire, obviously-”

“But still I shouldn’t have – you were all hurting and I just _leave_.” This was something he had been wanting to say for a while now, not having the words. Grantaire suddenly felt disgusted with himself, his grimace showing it. Courfeyrac, who had been looking at him like he wanted to interrupt again, now looked stricken.

“ _R_.”

“I mean, I used to be a good person, right, Courf? I was alright. I was, I was friends with all of you. I was – I was with _Enjolras._ But then I just abandon all of you, and I don’t even know why, I mean, I don’t remember clearly? Enjolras had just died, and-”

“Grantaire.” Courfeyrac took his hand, cradling it and making him want to cry. “R, _exactly_. Enjolras had just died, and we were all shaken, but most of all you. We know that. You lost the person you were in love with, Grantaire. Nobody, not one of us, expected you to do anything like that, staying here, when we knew it would hurt too much. Okay?”

“But.”

“Okay, R?”

Grantaire was about to cry again. This was so ridiculous. He was going to have a life again, and he was starting it by weeping lamely in Courfeyrac’s kitchen, fucking typical. But something in him felt freed by what Courfeyrac said to him; something was liberated by his words. Maybe now that this had been said between the two of them, Grantaire could become new. Maybe he could finally find his way back to himself.

“Okay,” he murmured, and Courfeyrac’s smile could blind a man.

**

The book store was so clean.

“There is literally no dust in here. Why is there no dust in here?”

Jehan wrinkled his forehead.

“Dust if for places that are not used, and not loved. We love this store, so there is no dust.”

“That’s not how logic or anything works.”

“Fine, whatever. Well, we clean regularly, for one. And we like to move things around, shake it all up a bit.”

“So, what? You just relocate books to different shelves like, every other day?”

“Kind of.”

“Wow. That must really confuse customers.”

“But that’s what makes it organic.”

“Plus, it’s not like we have any actual customers,” said Floréal. She was a tall and lean woman, probably a couple years older than he and Jehan, and she practically ran the store. How, well, Grantaire didn’t really know? How was this place still standing? How were they able to hand out free stuff and fair-trade coffee with books? A true mystery. “So there is no one to confuse, really.”

“Too fucking real,” Grantaire mumbled, staring at the door. The book store was homey and cozy in the early hours of the morning, warm after coming in from the chilly autumn street, and Grantaire let that warmth run through him, heat him from within.

“Do you have a secret sponsor? Is the government involved?” He kept guessing, then his face brightened with a new, more credible idea. “Are you a front cover for a mob organization?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Floréal deadpanned. “You guessed.”

The three of them were responsible for the entirety of the bookstore. Jehan did sales and coffee, Floréal was an over-all organizer and therefore did a little bit of everything, and Grantaire, for now, was trusted with doing the catalogue and stacking the shelves.

The morning passed quickly and without any event whatsoever. Outside, Paris was harsh and cold, bringing along rain clouds and greyness, and through the window, Grantaire could see grumpy passers-by, holding onto their scarves and coats. The stacking got pretty monotonous after a good while, and Grantaire, once again after a long time, could feel himself see things with the eye of an artist. He used to look at everything this way, observe and break into small pieces, analyze the things in order to be able to draw them. Now he was doing it again, and his heart fluttered pleasantly in his chest as took in the brilliance of the city.

Paris was full of colors, as it always was, its usual light autumn browns and yellows turning into something darker and more exciting, as though the city had been painted over with a thousand shades of turquoise. His hands were shaking as he constructed the picture in his mind. This, Grantaire thought, his heart in his throat, this was the city he hated. The city he loved. The city that gave him Enjolras and then took him away.

Nothing was as powerful and entitled as Paris.

But also, nothing was quite as heartbreakingly beautiful.

Grantaire leaned closer to the shop window, his nose nearly hitting the glass, and looked up at the stormy morning sky. Lightning bolts appeared to tear into the fabric of the horizon, colors radiant in their subtlety, and Grantaire knew that no city could make him feel like this.

Right before his lunch break, something unexpected happened: a customer walked in, making the tiny bell above the window chime gleefully. Grantaire was astonished by such a notion, and his head jerked up to see who it was.

The man stood tall at the entrance, something uncertain in the way he held himself. His face was pale and handsome, his features marking him as aristocratic. His blond hair was much like a crown on his head, and his full lips were pursed awkwardly, suggesting that he was either nervous or incredibly pissed off. His blue eyes matched the stormy Parisian day.

Grantaire’s jaw dropped. It was Enjolras.

In all his earthly glory, Enjolras walked up to the counter and greeted Jehan warmly. Grantaire recalled Jehan telling him that he felt something was not right about Enjolras, but this wasn’t apparent in the way he returned Enjolras’ greeting, patting him on the back, grinning at him. Grantaire looked away, hoping Enjolras was here to see Jehan and wouldn’t notice him. He continued arranging the books on the ‘For Children’ shelf.

He could hear the quiet sound of their chattering, but he couldn’t make out the words they were saying. After a minute or two, Grantaire could hear footsteps and was beginning to feel relieved about Enjolras leaving, when he was startled by a voice coming from right behind him.

“Hey.”

Grantaire gasped like a Hollywood actress from the 1940s, and turned to face the inevitable. Enjolras was standing beside the shelf Grantaire had been working on, his face a million little things Grantaire couldn’t name. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to – he wasn’t sure about anything that concerned Enjolras anymore.

“…Hi.”

“So you didn’t tell me you got a job here.”

“No, well. I haven’t seen you since, uh,” Grantaire’s voice died off, remembering the night he watched Enjolras fall asleep, the night he decided he would change for the better.

“Yeah,” Enjolras nodded, frowning. “You could have… come to see me, though.”

“Well,” Grantaire sighed. “I’m seeing you now.”

“Right. Listen. I just wanted to say thanks for putting up with me the other night. It was stupid, I shouldn’t have called you at night like that. I was. I was being stupid.”

Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment. “You weren’t being stupid. You just, you know. Needed someone to be there. I get that. I was in a bad place that night as well, you know. So what I’m saying is, it was fine. It was – okay.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said, offering him a small smile. “So, when do you get off?”

“I have lunch break in like, five minutes,” Grantaire said, glancing at the clock.

“Oh, okay. I could, uh – I could wait, and then, we could eat together. If you want? I’m not trying to force you or anything, if. If that’s how it came off.”

Grantaire exhaled, troubled. Enjolras wanted to have lunch with him somewhere. Just the two of them, most likely, and God, Grantaire was doing his best, but he wasn’t this _okay_ , all right? He couldn’t do casual meetups with Enjolras, not yet. _Not ever_ was what he used to think, but now he wasn’t certain – maybe the time _would_ come, the time when he and this Enjolras could be simply friends, without Grantaire wanting to collapse onto the ground.

“Sure,” was what he said in the end, because Grantaire’s mouth was a little shit, and okay, apparently he was going to have lunch with Enjolras now, neat. Fucking neat. Enjolras at least, definitely seemed to agree, because his smile broadened, and he really was very, very beautiful.

If he had met Enjolras for the first time now, he really wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Great,” he exclaimed. “I know a good place about.”

**

The good place Enjolras knew turned out to be one of their go-to restaurants downtown, and Grantaire wasn’t even surprised at this point. Enjolras brought him to a place they used to go on dates to, a place he, Grantaire had found in the first place. Just his luck.

“Fuck,” he said, as they sat down in one of the booths. “This place hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said. “You’ve been here before then?”

Grantaire’s expression must have been quite telling, because Enjolras spoke again.

“Wait, _we_ ’ve been here before?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Together?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You and me?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yep.”

Enjolras looked as though this information was causing him physical pain. He leaned back in his seat, throwing his head back, and Grantaire deliberately did not look at the way his throat worked. He did _not._

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said to the table. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“No, I. _No_. It’s just. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. Well, obviously.”

“It’s okay, Enjolras.” And there Grantaire went, using that name again.

“Do _you_ want to go somewhere else?”

“No. This _is_ a great place, after all.”

“Yeah.”

A waitress Grantaire didn’t know came to take their orders, and Grantaire stared at Enjolras as he spoke politely to the woman. She seemed to fancy Enjolras, holding her notebook very flirtatiously (Grantaire hadn’t even been aware that was possible), and tilting her head from one side to the other.

_Good luck lady_ , he thought to himself darkly. _He’s hella gay._

Or was he? Grantaire couldn’t really be sure about anything he used to know for certain. Enjolras was dead, but Enjolras was alive. He could very well have come back as the straightest man in existence – but Grantaire couldn’t even be ironic about that.

He stared mindlessly at Enjolras instead. He spoke in a sweet, quiet voice, but he was more polite than nice, and he seemed totally uninterested in the waitress’ advances. She took off, pouting, and Enjolras looked back at Grantaire, noticing his stare.

“What?”

His tone was so oblivious it made Grantaire break into a smile. Enjolras beamed back at him, surprised, and this was what hurt the most, these small things, these quiet smiles between the two of them.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Enjolras started to nod but Grantaire changed his mind. “Except there is something. Why did you bring me here? Why did you want to have lunch?”

Enjolras’s gaze found his, and he looked at Grantaire like he was something very significant.

“I’m really trying to remember,” he said softly, and this was what Grantaire had been afraid of. What if there was nothing there to remember?

But then Enjolras spoke again and changed his previous words into something that calmed Grantaire in strange ways.

“I’m really trying,” he said, and goddamit, Grantaire was really trying, too.

“I know.”

“I mean, I’m not stupid, you know.”

This surprised Grantaire.

“Clearly.”

“I know how the others look at me – look at _you._ There’s something I’m missing, right? Something important.”

“You don’t have to look quite so freaked, it’s not about our illegitimate child,” Grantaire snarled half-heartedly, because not even irony could save him from a situation like this.

Enjolras exhaled, frustrated. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Maybe it’s more fun this way,” Grantaire said, but it sounded like he was dying. Enjolras looked dubious.

“Is it?”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, his laughter humorless. “It really, _really_ isn’t.”

Enjolras, seemingly crestfallen, buried his face in his hands. Grantaire didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to hurt Enjolras in any way – but he also didn’t want to hurt himself any longer. It was a tricky business.

“I just,” Enjolras began, “I just really want to remember you.”

Grantaire had been in love with Enjolras for almost six years.

(Enjolras was dead.)

“What makes you think I’m worth remembering?”

“I’m pretty sure you are.”

And Grantaire really, definitely, one hundred percent did not know what to do with that.

“Just give me a chance, all right? I can do this. I can remember.”

Like it was a _challenge_ , like it was a project he needed to get done. God, Enjolras was such a weird creature, Grantaire couldn’t even believe any of the things that were happening. It was, on the one hand, ridiculous that Enjolras would even attempt something that was probably impossible. But it was also so much like Enjolras Grantaire felt dizzy. He nodded, resigned.

“Good,” the other man said. “Good.”

Grantaire just kept nodding.

When their meals came, Enjolras smiled at the waitress as he thanked her, which, well, started the whole circus all over again.

“What did you use to do?” Enjolras asked a few minutes later as they were eating. “Before? Did you have a job?”

“I was, well, employed at the college newspaper,” Grantaire said, realizing there was no way out of this conversation. “As a regular artist.”

“Did you ever work in a bookstore before?”

“Not really, no.”

“But why did you stop? Making art?” Enjolras looked like he was genuinely interested. “Were you not good?”

“I was actually really good. But thanks for the assumption.”

“That’s not what I meant. But then why?”

Grantaire put down his fork, and looked at Enjolras, studying him with great care. Enjolras said he wanted to remember Grantaire, that he wanted to know about him, and Grantaire really didn’t believe there was anything that could be recalled in Enjolras’ mind, but – but who did it hurt to answer a few questions. Maybe Grantaire, but he was quite used to it by now.

“I quit being an artist because someone I loved was killed.”

The words were like a ruthless fire. Saying them out loud made Grantaire feel raw and vulnerable, but it also made him feel more powerful than ever. It had happened, and he could say it. There was no need for whispers, for parentheses. He wasn’t afraid of it. It just hurt him.

Enjolras was dead. He was, it was a fact that would remain unchanged, no matter what came next. He died that day in that alley, and not even coming back from the dead would alter this truth. _If_ he came back. It was still up to debate, after all.

The Enjolras who sat opposite him looked mortified by Grantaire’s words. He kept opening and closing his mouth, and his eyes were full of questions.

“ _Grantaire_ ,” he said eventually. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

“And, this person, they-”

“He.”

“Oh. _Oh_. I see. So, if you don’t mind me asking – how did it happen?”

Grantaire licked his lips, and tasted acid. “He was shot.”

“ _Jesus._ I’m so-”

“You don’t have to keep telling me that you’re sorry.”

“Sor-mm,” Enjolras murmured, catching himself in time. “You’ve probably heard it enough.”

“You could say that,” Grantaire allowed.

“When did this happen?”

“A couple of years ago,” Grantaire said, trying not to say too much. This was already borderline masochistic; the way he was half-confessing his truths about Enjolras _to_ Enjolras.

“And he, he was your-”

Grantaire averted his gaze. “He was my boyfriend, yes.”

“Were you, uh, together for a long time?”

“Yes. Four years.”

Enjolras flexed his hands, his expression pained. He shifted in his seat and made a humming sound to himself, then looked up at Grantaire again.

“Am I asking too many questions? Would you rather not talk about this?”

Grantaire grunted. “That was two questions at once, so yeah. It’s safe to say you’re asking a lot of questions. But I mean, you’re fine. It’s fine, I should – it’s probably high time I said these things out loud to someone. Someone who doesn’t know.”

Enjolras blinked. And then he kept blinking, like he was doing some sort of Morse code. He looked so uncomplicatedly like the Enjolras Grantaire loved, the Enjolras they were having a veiled discussion about right now. How ridiculously horrible life was. Amazing.

“So,” Enjolras spoke, clearing his throat. His cheeks looked flushed. “You stopped being an artist.”

“I did.”

“Do you ever miss it?”

Grantaire had to think about this. No one had asked him about his art since forever, and now he struggled to put his feelings into words.

“I didn’t for the longest time. For years I didn’t even think about it, but now, recently, I’ve been thinking about art again. I don’t know. I guess I do miss it.” _Huh._

“And what sort of art did you do? Paintings?”

Grantaire huffed at the simplified term. “Yeah, I did paintings. Tempera and oil, mostly, but I did some watercolor as well. I… liked that a lot. I would draw too. I used to do it all the time?”

Enjolras wasn’t looking at him, but he kept nodding along. “Pencil drawings?”

“Yes.”

“But why do you hate pastel? I always thought it was quite popular, you know. To use.”

“I don’t know, it’s just so messy? I – wait, how did you know that?”

Enjolras looked up at him, taken aback.

“What?”

“That I hate pastel.”

“Oh, I. Oh. I don’t know, I just thought-”

“-that I wouldn’t do pastel drawings?” Grantaire frowned, and he tasted something bitter in his mouth. He had the feeling that he was afraid of something, but he didn’t know what.

“Yes, I just. You know, it just came to me. Automatically. I don’t know.”

“Hmm.”

This was stupid. So Enjolras assumed Grantaire didn’t like pastel, big deal. It didn’t mean anything. It certainly did not mean that he could remember Grantaire going on and on about pastel being the epitome of evil, the incarnation of the Anti-Christ, no.

**

This went on for a while. Grantaire tried to let go of the whole pastel thing, and just focused on Enjolras’ questions. They were either pretty general, concerning his childhood: lonely, his parents: disowned, or they were disturbingly specific. Enjolras asked about the scars on Grantaire’s arms and temple (boxing injuries), the origins of his nickname, or what universally beloved band he thought was the worst ever (Queen).

“Your taste in music is so weird,” Enjolras observed, looking through Grantaire’s ancient mp3 player. “This folder is literally just called ‘Kill Bill Sirens 10 Hour Version’.”

“Ah, my favorite song,” Grantaire deadpanned. They were having coffee now, he and Enjolras, and something about this was weird. The customary ache in his chest was, of course, present, but his head felt light, his posture was straight and easy, and it was almost like spending time Enjolras made him feel good.

Grantaire didn’t even bother to wrap his mind around that.

“Are you going to be staying with Courfeyrac full time then?” Enjolras asked him as they were stepping outside the restaurant, the cold breeze hitting their faces. Grantaire’s ridiculously long lunch break was soon coming to an end, so they made their way in the direction of the bookstore.

“No. I’ll try to get my own place, I guess. Once Éponine leaves.”

“Is she your best friend?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire sniffed. “Now she most certainly is.”

“That’s nice,” Enjolras said. “To have a best friend.”

“You have a best friend,” Grantaire pointed out. “And not just any best friend.”

Enjolras gritted his teeth. “I think Combeferre feels weird around me. I don’t know.”

“It’ going to take time, Enjolras,” Grantaire said. “Two years is. Well, it’s a long time. And Combeferre didn’t know you would-”

“Yes,” Enjolras said sharply. “Yes, I realize that. But – can I say this? – it doesn’t really feel that way. Like it’s been a long time, that is. Everything feels – not the same, but really similar to how I remember it. Almost like time has stopped.”

Grantaire, who had carried those two miserable years inside him, remained silent.

“Except when I’m with you,” Enjolras added.

“What?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I just mean, when you’re around, it really does feel like it’s been two years. Or even more than that. A lot more, actually.”

“Because you can’t remember me.”

Enjolras clenched his jaw. “Yeah. Yes, that must be it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bitch to construct. I hope you like it though, sweet ones.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire tries to go through life. Meanwhile: Scrabble night.

Time, as it was, had the hilarious habit of passing, and leaving everyone behind. It was doing it now, moving faster and faster; rainy days, fallen leaves, your breath seen in the air when you spoke – and now, they were deep in autumn, with no choice of turning back.

Every morning the sun came up, and every morning, Grantaire woke up to get to work again, defiant, heavy with sleep and something darker. But he did it, and there were easy days and not-so-easy days. There were mornings when he spent a good ten minutes sitting on the edge of his bed, and telling himself that he just had to keep moving. That it was all he could do.

But sometimes there were brilliant, light mornings, when the coffee was hot and just bitter enough, when the reds and yellows of the street gave him strength, and when Grantaire felt like he belonged in his skin. He ended up finding a small studio apartment not terribly far from the store, and had just enough money to be able to afford the rent. Courfeyrac, bless his soul, kept offering to let Grantaire live with him indefinitely, and Grantaire kept declining. It was most certainly not what he needed, and he was pretty sure Courfeyrac would be better off without him as well, however hard he kept protesting Grantaire’s refusal. How else would he bring home young dancer boys if Grantaire was just there, ready to interrupt at any given time?

So he lived on his own. And he went to work every day.

And it was okay – no, it really was. Or it was getting there. Grantaire was finally ready to leave his toxic life behind, and for that he needed to go cold turkey. He needed to have a balance between the hours he still spent awake at night, having his brain replay every single thing his Enjolras ever said to him, and the moments in the day he spent laughing with Jehan and Floréal, accepting Joly’s dinner invites, and humming under his breath. Because those moments were there, and when Grantaire found it in himself to give himself over to them, well, then he was as close to happy as he ever thought he would be.

And, in a painfully obvious way, there was also Enjolras.

He seemed determined to involve Grantaire in his new life, to call him on his phone or stop by at the bookstore around his lunch break. He talked to Grantaire about whatever was on his mind, and still he asked him thousands of questions.

Even though Grantaire, on some level, was getting used to the constant presence of Enjolras, it still felt like getting punched in the face whenever he walked through the door or called Grantaire by his name. His face, so alive and so real, and his voice, ever-flowing, were both honey and poison for him.

There was also the obvious issue: he didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Enjolras, known by that name only, was still very much present – there was no vanishing into thin air or slowly fading out before any of their friends could reach him, no. None of the things Grantaire had secretly thought when he first saw him in that hospital room. For a cosmic joke, he was astoundingly permanent. And alive.

Alive, that word was dangerous, it made Grantaire’s mind race to perilous territories, places where his heart was broken and yet ready to be filled with something that would keep it together, places Enjolras’ voice was both distant and very much available to him. Places where the lines between life and death were blurry.

So then what if this Enjolras wouldn’t go away? What if he was there to stay, forever or as long as they all lived? What if he got a job, went back to school, got a cat? What if – what if he grew old? Grantaire’s heart could hardly take that, the image of a wrinkly, white haired Enjolras was not something he could fathom. It was also not something he could let go of.

And no, Grantaire thought to himself one night when he watched from the corner as Enjolras came out triumphant in a vicious game of Scrabble, this wasn’t the Enjolras that once was. But he also wasn’t a completely different person, of this Grantaire was becoming more and more sure. Maybe there were no rules for this, no categories. It just _was._

“Oh my God,” Joly moaned, staring at the board. “ _oxazepam_ is so not a word!”

“It is,” Enjolras insisted, looking to Combeferre for support. “It is, right?”

Combeferre sighed, a bemused expression on his face, which was not at all surprising considering he had just lost a game he was an expert at.

“Sadly, it is,” he confirmed. “It’s an anti-anxiety drug.”

“Ah, fuck this,” Bahorel said, getting his wallet from his back pocket. “You are all lying liars who lie.”

“You doing okay there?”

Grantaire took his eyes off Enjolras’s flushed face, only to see Cosette standing next to him with a beer in one hand. Her eyes were as large as ever, and they were clouded with concern. He sighed.

“I’m doing great. You?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get by,” she replied, leaning against Grantaire. She stared in the direction where Grantaire’s eyes had been glued to: at Enjolras, smiling softly as he collected his winnings. “Enjolras seems to be doing okay too.”

“Hmm? Oh yeah.”

“Still nothing?”

Grantaire snorted. “Do you mean; does he miraculously remember who I am? Nah.”

“I was so sure he would,” Cosette whispered. “But I guess, he still _could_. You two have been spending some time together, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And what do you do?”

“He asks me questions.”

“About what?”

Grantaire licked his lips. “Anything. Stupid stuff. My taste in music, or movies, or what I wanted to be as a kid.”

“Did you tell him you wanted to be an elephant tamer?”

“I sure did,” Grantaire nodded.

“Hmm. Maybe he is trying to put together everything about you, and trying to remember.”

“Or maybe he’s only trying to get to know me, because I’m a complete stranger to him.”

“ _R_.”

“ _Cosette_. This is not a Disney movie.”

“I know that,” she said. “Obviously. There would be so much more singing if it was. But look at it this way: we have Enjolras back. He came back to us.”

“…Okay. And your point is?”

“My point is: maybe he can come back to you, too.”

Grantaire groaned. Cosette was all goodness and birds braiding her hair, but Grantaire couldn’t have hopes like this – he was still working on being a person again, on getting out of bed in the mornings and he still had to make an effort to be with his friends.

“I just, I can’t afford to think like this, Cosette. I can’t hold onto something that will probably never happen. And I don’t really want to, either.”

“I get it, R, I do. But if it really happened, if he remembered-”

“Yes, sure, that’d be great, I’m all for happy endings and some shit, but listen: Enjolras is dead.”

Darkness hung over Cosette’s face, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Grantaire.”

“No, he is. Nothing changes that, okay? He died. I saw it. And yes, I know that he’s like, alive now and sitting right across the room, but he was dead for those two years. And nothing will make that go away.”

Cosette looked ready to cry, and fuck if that was what Grantaire wanted to achieve. He let out a sigh, touching her arm.

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“No,” she said softly, her face grave. “You’re right. I know you’re right. He died.”

“Cosette.”

“I don’t want to ask the impossible of you, R,” she continued. “I know that you being here in the first place is a huge deal, and I don’t want to ruin that, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not at all mad at you, you know.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, smiling. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I know,” Grantaire said, his eyes on Enjolras. “But maybe I can try to be happy like this. You know? Just me.”

“Just you,” she echoed, tasting the words in her mouth. “And also us.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed, a warmth running over him. “Also you guys.”

“Hey, what are you two doing there?” Feuilly shouted at them.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Not each other, in case you were wondering.”

Cosette giggled. “Or drugs.”

“Or taxes.”

Cosette pushed herself away from the wall and walked back to the rest of them, while Grantaire continued to stand there quietly. He picked up his beer from the bookshelf next to him and was ready to take a giant sip when he, once again, noticed Enjolras, lurking like a vampire.

“Jesus,” he sneered, spilling some of the beer on his chest. Enjolras frowned.

“I did it again, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to.”

“You know you’re not actually supposed to be this scary. How are you even doing this, my _God_. You were just there not a moment ago!” Grantaire cried, clutching his chest, and obviously something was overly dramatic about his reaction, but maybe talking to Enjolras like this was easier than the terrible earnest way he wanted to talk to him sometimes. That wouldn’t do any good, in the end.

And goddamit, Enjolras watched him as he spoke, his face attentive, and then smiled at him once he finished speaking. That smile could burn cities to the ground.

Grantaire really hated to admit that.

“My lurking ways must be a new thing, then,” he said to Grantaire, still smiling. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Grantaire replied, automatic. He frowned. “Why, do I look ruffled? Am I not radiating the team spirit I feel in my very heart?”

“Oh no, you are. I was just, you know. Thinking about you.”

Grantaire froze. “You were thinking about me.”

“Well, yes.”

“While winning at Scrabble? God, you and your multi-tasking ways, Enjolras.”

Enjolras huffed, looking down at his shoes. He seemed nervous in a way that was unfamiliar to Grantaire; he seemed only half-present in their mindless conversation, but there was a strange awakening in his eyes.

“I’m glad you’re calling me that now.”

“What, you didn’t like being called Apollo? Is the metaphor offensive to you?”

“No, that’s not it. I mean, yeah, but that’s not why I – I only meant that I like that you call me by my name. I just feel like it has some sort of, significance,” Enjolras concluded, shrugging, and damn, why did everything he said have to be so observant?

_Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras_

“Hmm,” Grantaire said noncommittally. Enjolras exhaled loudly.

“So, you know my apartment?”

“Ah, sure. What about it?”

“I miss it.”

This broke Grantaire apart. His newly-found friendship with Enjolras sometimes managed to distract him and almost made him forget that he was in love with the very concept of Enjolras, all versions of him drawing Grantaire in – and that he used to live with him in his apartment, used to wake up next to him, smell him in every room.

_Me too_ , he wanted to say. But he only nodded.

“I mean, I like living with Combeferre,” Enjolras went on. “I used to, you know, in college, but. That apartment was a part of me, you know? I guess I just miss… having that. A place to go to.”

“A home,” Grantaire murmured.

“Yes.”

For a few seconds, they stood in silence, shoulder by shoulder.

“Did I – did I live with someone there? For a while?”

Grantaire was so surprised he felt like he was falling.

“What?”

Enjolras hummed, seemingly unable to express himself.

“I don’t know, I just have this feeling, every time I think about my place. That I had someone there, with me. I feel like I can almost remember – a presence. A feeling. A good feeling, really.”

“Like, a roommate?” Grantaire asked with a hoarse voice, trying to divert the conversation. Did Enjolras remember living with someone? Living with – with Grantaire?

No. Surely not.

“Ugh, no, not a roommate. I don’t think – it feels different; you know? More intimate, somehow.”

Grantaire didn’t answer. He couldn’t look at Enjolras, and instead stared at his beer bottle like it would start singing any second now.

“What exactly are you saying, Enjolras? That – what? That you remember something you didn’t before?” God, his own voice sounded so cold and cautious Grantaire hardly recognized it. Enjolras was staring at him intently, his eyes, ever so blue, inscrutable and indestructible.

“Maybe,” he replied to Grantaire. “Were you living here then? Before my – before I was-”

“No,” Grantaire said, the lie easy and sweet in his mouth. “No, I left before then, Enjolras.”

“Oh,” Enjolras whispered, casting his eyes down, and Grantaire should have felt victorious – whatever this Enjolras thought he knew was proved wrong by his own lie.

But something felt wrong about this, although that was hardly unusual.

His grief had manifested into a feeling of wrongness, something smaller but not any less sharp Grantaire kept in his pocket above his heart.

He breathed out slowly, moving away from the wall and Enjolras.

“Listen, it’s fine, okay? You promised me you would remember, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Enjolras said, looking back up at him. “I will.”

“See? Problem solved.”

“Problem solved,” Enjolras echoed, somewhat more hesitantly. Courfeyrac waved them both over then, ending whatever this strange thing was between them, and Grantaire stopped standing idly by. He began speaking, laughing, joking, almost like he used to back when he was somebody less damaged. He was a part of their group again, and these people were his friends. Enjolras was his friend. His _friend_. He could do that, maybe. Someday.

The night continued with a bad German movie and a text from Éponine, saying that the day she decided to become a bartender was the day she became cursed for all eternity. Grantaire grinned down at his phone, registering that this meant Marius was around again, being helpless and ridiculous. And that Éponine didn’t mind that at all, no matter what she said.

The movie featured an art museum with paintings that were obviously held in other, more famous museums around the world, everyone knew that. To make matters worse, the pictures were really bad fakes – Grantaire thought so, at least.

“You can just tell they were printed out from the Internet,” he shouted, pointing at the screen. “Doesn’t even come close to the real thing, look at those colors! They’re supposed to be green and not turquoise, good God.”

“The painting is nice though,” Jehan said. “I love Degas.”

“He was a pervert,” Enjolras and Grantaire said at the same time, without missing a beat. They looked at each other, perplexed.

“Okay,” Jehan drawled. “One, that was either weird or just cute. Two, why was he a pervert?”

Enjolras pursed his lips, clearly embarrassed by the situation, so it was Grantaire who had to answer the question, and he tried to get over his deep momentary shock to do so.

“Uh, you know. His paintings about the ballet dancers? All really young girls, and he was super clearly obsessed with painting them. There’s also something weirdly sexual about the movements of the girls, and it has got to be deliberate, right? And, uh. He has a series of paintings about a dancer girl _bathing_.”

“Creepy,” Bossuet stated. Grantaire nodded.

“To say the least.”

“No one seems to think about that though,” Cosette said. “Among the art critics, I mean.”

“Right. Almost as if being a decent painter excuses being a pervert and/or sexual predator,” Combeferre added, smoothing down his hair absent-mindedly. Grantaire smiled at him.

“That’s just the world we live in, I guess.”

“Like Woody Allen,” Enjolras said, and the others looked at him. “Well, he has proved to be more or less a pedophile, but it’s not like anyone is calling him out on it, is it?”

“Too true,” Joly sighed.

“I guess you could argue that overwhelming sexual attitude is kind of expected of men, especially white men,” Courfeyrac went on, switching into full academia mode and wow, it was like university all over again. “They are constantly excused and protected by society, and they can go on being as gross as they like, because _boys will be boys_.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with inherent sexuality,” Courf added, wiggling his eyebrows. “I am, for one, as tame as a lamb, and also a sexual being.”

“We know,” Grantaire deadpanned, earning a laugh from Enjolras. Not that he took notice.

“So am I,” Cosette blurted. “ _Asexual_ being. Get it. Ha-ha, get it? Because I’m ace. That’s the joke.”

Joly and Bahorel were shaking with laughter, and Combeferre almost spit out his beer.

“Wow,” Jehan said.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's getting cold and things come rushing to an end. Éponine's back! There's an obscure museum no one has heard of.

It was autumn in Grantaire’s heart; something in him was dying, leaving fierce colors behind, changing the earth and the air.

What was it that was dying inside him?

It wasn’t the memory of Enjolras, no; that was as alive and flowing in him as ever, getting closer and clearer each day. Grantaire couldn’t explain it, but he felt more sure of his love for Enjolras than he had felt in a really long time. He felt at peace with the face that he loved, the eyes that he loved, the soul that he loved – and at the same time, he felt at odds with himself and the way he felt.

There was the Enjolras he remembered, the one he was in love with.

And there was the Enjolras who was there, present and breathing, in his life and the lives of his friends. The Enjolras who looked at Grantaire like he was the most interesting thing he had ever seen, who laughed at his jokes, who asked him questions, who called him in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. The Enjolras who wanted to remember him, but didn’t. Or: The Enjolras who didn’t remember Grantaire, but really, really _wanted to._

Why did they matter, these two Enjolrases? Why did it matter that there were two of them, both dear to something unnamed in Grantaire, both making his blood sing?

Could you be in love with the same person, twice?

This wasn’t a question Grantaire ever asked. This wasn’t even a subject he thought about, it was something locked and put away in his mind, something that wasn’t real as long he did not see it.

Instead of disturbing thoughts such as these, there was this: working at the bookstore with Jehan. Talking to Courfeyrac over the phone. Having lunch with Cosette.

There was this: having Éponine back in town again, after almost a month without her.

There was this: watching Enjolras. Watching him, _seeing_ him, and going blissfully numb.

“What is the point of this” Éponine asked, sounding bored.

They had been standing in line in front of the Louvre for almost an hour and a half, not getting any closer to the entrance. A new exhibition had opened the previous week, and Grantaire would be lying if he said he hadn’t been eyeing the flyers keenly everywhere he went, but he was a working man and didn’t really have the money to be able to afford something like this.

Enjolras obviously did, damn him. It was his idea to bring Grantaire and Éponine here, to make an outing, to do something nice. What the actual hell.

“We’re going to this,” he had said the previous afternoon, sitting with Grantaire and, for a change, Éponine in a dirty little café somewhere downtown. Outside it was unforgivingly cold, the windows steamy from the warm breaths of the guests.

“What the hell?” Grantaire had asked, frowning at him. “Who has that kind of money?”

“I do,” Enjolras shrugged, and Éponine looked so impressed it looked almost comical. “And I could tell how much you wanted to go, Grantaire.”

“Yeah, you’re not stupid,” Grantaire breathed into his mug, cheeks crimson red. He felt incredibly hot and shaky all of a sudden. Enjolras did this for him. (Enjolras could read him like this.) They were _friends._

“And you’re not subtle,” the other man said. Éponine laughed.

“Oh _God_ ,” she said, looking like Christmas had come early. “Good to know you’re in good hands, Grantaire. Enjolras obviously has got it covered.”

Enjolras didn’t seem to know whether to look sheepish or proud, so instead, he invited Éponine to go along with them.

And now, here they were, waiting to be let inside, freezing their socks off. Autumn was coming to an end, and it was deeply embedded into the Parisian air.

“I’m so cold I can’t feel my toes,” Éponine said.

“Let’s just go home,” Grantaire offered.

“We’re getting in,” Enjolras countered, looking furiously determined, and God, this look reminded Grantaire of so many things he didn’t want to name. Warm things, things of honey – things he thought he had lost long ago. “This is ridiculous. This was supposed to be a good thing for you.”

“For _you_ ,” Éponine echoed, her voice low, aiming the words at Grantaire, who rolled his eyes. She was dumb as hell. And his best friend in the whole world.

“It’s so cold, Enjolras. Is this really worth it?”

Enjolras stared at Grantaire, something flashing in his eyes.

“Yes,” he said, all conviction, and he turned around and walked to the beginning of the line, fast and furious.

“No, Enjolras, don’t go!” Grantaire called after him. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

And then there was only the two of them, he and Éponine, shaking and blue from the cold. Éponine was gazing at him the way she had started to some time ago, all knowing and infuriating.

“What, ‘Ponine?”

“Enjolras.”

“What, uh, what about him?”

“You always call him that. No dude, no man. Not even Apollo. Just Enjolras.”

“That’s his name, I guess.”

“You say it a lot, too.”

“What are you getting at?” Grantaire asked, laughing nervously under her scrutinizing stare.

“That it’s okay, shitface. It’s okay to love him again. Or to keep loving him, or whatever.”

Grantaire froze, and not from the cold.

“What. The _hell_ are you talking about?”

Éponine’s face softened.

“Grantaire-”

“No – what the? I don’t? He’s not even? No.”

“Whatever you say,” she muttered, rubbing her gloved hands together, seeking warmth. “I’m just saying. That it’s okay. That you’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Oh, that’s your mistake. I’m doing plenty wrong. I have an itemized list.”

“Sure.”

Enjolras reappeared, disheveled. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes gleaming, and Grantaire wanted to sink into the ground.

(The same ground they had buried Enjolras in.)

“Come on,” he said, waving. “We’re going in.”

“But the line-”

“Don’t worry about it. They’re letting us skip it. I talked it over with the security guy.”

“How?” Éponine asked, brows furrowed. Enjolras shrugged, nonchalant.

“We discussed the law, and a very famous artist I had with me that he wouldn’t want to upset. I may have mentioned physical harm.”

Grantaire coughed, incredulous.

“Wow, holy shit. You’re crazy.”

“Jesus, dude, that’s awesome. So Grantaire’s a famous artist now, huh? Is there any chance of getting a personal guided tour?”

Enjolras smiled at her briefly, then looked back at Grantaire, who was still standing there, unmoving, tremulous

“Enjolras,” he blurted out, “you’re insane. Actually, totally crazy, for like real.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras mumbled, looking almost proud.

_It’s okay to love him again_ , Éponine had just said not a minute ago.

How about that.

**

It was autumn in Grantaire’s heart. Something in him was dying, softly, soundly, leaving fierce yellows and crimsons behind, and he had no idea how to stop it. He couldn’t even begin to name the thing he was losing inside him, couldn’t even conjure up a silhouette of it. And yet, it was still happening – something inside was colliding and collapsing, and maybe Grantaire could face that his love was a diverse thing; he loved two Enjolrases, all the Enjolrases, everywhere that they could be.

He had always thought that it was the very thought of Enjolras that he loved, and in some extent, it was indeed true – and for two long years it was all that he could love. But now, having it in front of him, Grantaire remembered what he had tried to forget: that Enjolras wasn’t only a thought, he wasn’t all concept and idea, no. He was flesh and blood and sound and light, and all that built him was all that Grantaire was in love with.

Enjolras was dead – but Enjolras was alive. And this was something that Grantaire finally let himself understand – that his love for Enjolras didn’t cease to exist when he died, much like it didn’t (couldn’t) cease to exist when he came back to life. Was this Enjolras that Grantaire had been in love with? Who knows. _Who knows?_

But was this the Enjolras that lived, laughed and burned the way the old Enjolras did? Yes. Yes yes yes yes.

(These words were Grantaire’s very heartbeat when Enjolras was around.)

He couldn’t help it.

He didn’t want to.

And maybe that was okay.

They were sitting inside now, safely packed away in Grantaire’s living room from the piercing cold of November, Enjolras sitting on his couch, staring mindlessly at the television, and Grantaire on the ground, leaning against the couch, trying to stare mindlessly at the television and not at Enjolras.

Not at Enjolras.

He had showed up on his doorstep unexpectedly earlier that evening, Enjolras had, and something about the way he looked at Grantaire was peculiar, like he couldn’t quite believe that he was seeing him.

Grantaire tried not to think much of it, and instead just stepped aside to let Enjolras walk inside, then offered him coffee.

And God, here they were now.

Grantaire was just thinking about getting snacks from the kitchen so he wouldn’t have to sit here awkwardly with the man he was in love with more times than he could count, when Enjolras grabbed at the remote control, and with a sudden movement, turned the TV off.

He could hear Enjolras sigh, something calculated in his breath.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire blinked.

“Huh?”

“Was I dead?”

Grantaire sat up like lightning had just struck.

“What did you just say?”

Enjolras was staring at him, probably had been for a while, his gaze calm and collected.

“For those two years I missed – did I die? Is that what happened?”

Grantaire couldn’t respond, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand on his two feet. His head was suddenly loud with everything that had happened.

( _Are you a way to block water – What – Because damn – You can’t smoke in here – I love you – You’re so beautiful – I can’t sleep – I’m glad you came to see us – You’re so beautiful – You’re gonna be okay – I broke you – Who brings a gun to a peaceful-)_

And Enjolras was still gazing at him.

“That’s what happened, right. Grantaire. You can tell me.”

But he _couldn’t._

Enjolras, who must have sensed his paralyzed state of mind, continued, merciless.

“I… have been thinking about this a while,” he admitted, making a sound that was half amused and half desperate. “The way you guys looked at me at the hospital – especially Combeferre, and, and _you_. The little looks and the hushed conversations – I had my suspicions, however crazy this sounded, even to me.”

Enjolras started pacing across the room, both ginger and frantic, and Grantaire was still frozen to the spot.

“I went to the cemetery the other day,” he said, each word a confession. “To see if… if I was there. And I wasn’t, I actually made the caretaker look up my name in the database, and I wasn’t- but still I just had this feeling, I kept going back to the hospital to talk to Combeferre about it, but I simply couldn’t, and I made up all these excuses, he probably thinks I have some sort of metabolism problem now, but I – have to know. Grantaire, tell me – please.”

Grantaire, as though awakened from a long and strange dream, finally let out a breath. And when he tried to form words with his lips, it was a success.

“Why are you asking me about this, Enjolras?” He sounded sweet and quiet, the low rage and darkness he had begun to feel unapparent. “Why not Combeferre, Courf – even Feuilly?”

Enjolras was gazing at him – or glaring, it was hard to tell when his heart was beating his hard.

“Because I’m asking _you_. I… I trust you to tell me the truth. I trust you more than anyone else right now, or probably ever.”

He made it sound so simple, so logical, and Grantaire was breaking apart.

“But _why_ do you trust me? You don’t know me, Enjolras, not like you know them.”

“But I do,” Enjolras said, throwing his hands up in fervor. “I do know you, Grantaire, I really do. I have felt this way ever since I first saw you walk in that hospital room and look at me like you couldn’t believe I was there. And what about all the time we have spent together? Does that somehow _not_ count?”

Grantaire exhaled, frustrated and scared.

“For all you know, I could have been feeding you lies all this time, idiot!”

“Oh, have you?” Enjolras asked, doubtful and mocking.

“ _Yes._ ”

This made Enjolras flinch. Grantaire took a full yet empty breath, and closed his eyes.

“Ask me.”

Enjolras frowned but obeyed. His voice was hoarse, resigned. “Was I dead for those two years?”

Grantaire could feel all his love and grief rushing to his mouth, but when he spoke, all that came out was the truth: “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUUUN.  
> Okay so, the way they got into the museum, I know it sounds crazy, but it's LITERALLY how my aunt got my dad and her into the German Parliament in 2003, by giving this total lie about my dad being a famous novelist who has an appointment for a private tour. They cut the line and got in because my aunt was so "furious" and they didn't want to offend a Famous Hungarian Novelist. I'm serious. Don't tell Germany.
> 
> We're so close to the end!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre once again has a way with words, and Enjolras attempts to scare the living daylight out of Grantaire one more time. But does he manage?

Combeferre was working his second shift at the hospital, that was what the receptionist had told him. He was leaning against a counter, reading a chart and stuffing a donut in his mouth, and when he saw Grantaire walking towards him, he quickly began to chew.

“He knows,” he said to Combeferre, no greeting, no nothing. Combeferre nodded hesitantly, and when he adjusted his glasses, he got sugar powder on them. Grantaire reached up to wipe it away, absent-mindedly.

“I, uh, see,” Combeferre said, no pun intended, once he swallowed his food. He cast a scrutinizing look at Grantaire. “And you mean Enjolras, of course. What does he know, exactly? That you and him-”

“He knows that he was dead, Combeferre,” Grantaire said, cutting him off. “He asked me if he was. He said he’d been suspecting it for a while.”

Combeferre inhaled, holding himself against the counter. He put down the chart from his hands and motioned at Grantaire to sit. Grantaire didn’t.

“He said he doesn’t remember – he just has a, a _feeling_ or some shit. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre said at last, his voice stern but gentle, in a very Combeferre-like manner. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you at all, this isn’t your fault or anything. I am actually – not very surprised.”

“What? You… knew he knew?”

“Well. I had my suspicions.” This was so much like what Enjolras had said to him earlier that Grantaire felt floored with terrible irony.

“How?”

“I mean,” Combeferre shrugged, “he is Enjolras. One of the smartest people we know, right?”

Grantaire let out a pained groan. “Right.”

“Right,” he went on. “I mean, of course he figured it out, right? Of _fucking_ course. But this means – it means that he is not going to remember, right? Because there is nothing _to_ remember, and that he is-”

“He is Enjolras. Nothing changes that.” Grantaire wanted to protest, almost out of habit, but Combeferre lifted a hand to silence him. “Listen, Grantaire. It has been incredibly hard for me, having Enjolras around.”

Grantaire looked at Combeferre, eyes wide. He had thought about this before, about the way Combeferre seemed quite hesitant in the way he acted towards Enjolras, strange and calculated in his movements, but with a reserved look in his eyes. Combeferre, like Grantaire, had been struggling – but to hear it from the man himself, that was quite a thing.

“When I called you, that first time, when he showed up at the hospital – well you remember. I was shaken, but I really did believe that it was him. Alive. Present. But then when I took him to my place to live with me – it was harder than I ever could have imagined. For two years I was carved out, Grantaire, and having Enjolras fill the hole again felt – absurd. Uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to do with him. I wanted to be like I used to be, his best friend – he was after all, mine.”

“But you couldn’t quite do it.”

“It was so hard, Grantaire. It still is, some days, because you’re right, or you _were_ right. Enjolras died. I know it, I saw it. I go to bed every night having his death flashing before my eyes, and yet, here he is, talking to me about domestic civil rights like nothing had happened.”

“Hmm.”

“But listen here, okay? He is _alive_. There is no question about that. And however broken we are, however changed – we cannot let this opportunity pass us by. If someone had told me that I would get him back, safe and sound again, after he had died, well. I wouldn’t have let anything stop me from that, from him. And now we do have him back, in whatever way, and we must never distance ourselves from him, do you understand? This will never happen again. It’s just the _one_ chance to have him back.”

Combeferre’s voice was something soothing and brave, and Grantaire stood next to him, listening to him as he stared at his shoes. He really, really wanted to cry. But Combeferre was right. Shocker.

“I know how much this has hurt you, Grantaire. And how much it still does. But please, think about this, all right? He’s here with us, and it makes no real difference if he remembers or not. It’s _always_ Enjolras. And you can always make new memories, together.”

Now Grantaire really was crying, like a sudden thunderstorm in the summer, collapsing against Combeferre and weeping silently. And Combeferre, like the tree he was, like the rock he was, held him steady.

**

Paris was quiet as Grantaire walked home from the hospital, too tired and too cry-y to take the bus and face other people. This way, however, it took him over two hours to finally get to his apartment. In his mailbox, four notes awaited him, one from Cosette, two from Courfeyrac, and another two from… from Enjolras. They were all about begging Grantaire to call them, or to stop by if he had the time, but it was the ones written by Enjolras that Grantaire read with the greatest care.

_Please Grantaire, you made me leave so suddenly and I really ~~want~~ need to talk to you please, please call me_

Grantaire tended to feel like that all he did these days was sigh loudly, and this time of day was no exception. He spent the walk up the stairs sighing all around, clutching the notes in his hand. In front of his apartment, he spent a good two minutes trying to put the key into the lock, unable to focus. Finally, he got inside, and finally he walked in the apartment, smelling that familiar smell, and seeing - Enjolras sit in his tiny excuse of a kitchen. Grantaire wasn’t even surprised anymore.

“What the hell. Did you never leave? Did I dream that?”

“I’m so sorry I scared you again,” Enjolras murmured, not meeting his eyes. “I just really wanted to speak to you.”

“So you _broke in_?”

“Well – yes. But only a little bit.”

“How?”

“Believe it or not, your locks aren’t all that sophisticated.”

Grantaire couldn’t believe this. He buried his face in his hands, sounding muffled as he spoke.

“And what do you want? Got any more questions? Any propositions?”

“No. I just. I just wanted you to look at me.”

This floored Grantaire. He looked up, dropping his hand, and met Enjolras’ intent gaze. The other man was looking over him, searching him with his eyes, and seemed to find something in them because a small smile spread over his face.

“How,” Grantaire asked in a throaty voice, “how are you even remotely calm about this?”

Enjolras pursed his lips, shrugging his shoulders.

“My life has been pretty strange before,” he said. “I guess. I suppose coming back from the dead is just, one of those things.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“Why – why do you want me to look at you?” Grantaire asked in a small voice. Enjolras licked his lips.

“Because I don’t remember you – no, listen. I don’t remember you from before, not like I should. When I first saw you at the hospital, I didn’t know your name, or how we knew each other – but I knew that we did. I could feel it. And I still do. Like you know something about me. Something important.”

“Like a secret keeper?” He deadpanned, carving moons into his palm with his nails.

Enjolras smiled. “Like a secret keeper.”

“When you told me about your – your boyfriend, who died. You said you were in love with him.”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes, helpless. “I was.”

“Are you still?” The way Enjolras asked this made it seem like something overtly significant, something that held hope and despair inside itself, and Grantaire couldn’t do this. He’d had this dam keeping everything inside for so long, what would happen if it all started rushing out?

“I’m not ready to talk about this, Enjolras. I just…”

“Okay,” Enjolras said, looking at Grantaire like he was both pain and pleasure – and fuck if Grantaire could stand being looked at like that again, after such a long time.

“Why are you doing this to me?” He burst out, louder than he had intended to.

Enjolras’ gaze was fixated on him still, unblinking.

“Because I don’t remember you – but sometimes it’s like I do. I know things about you, things you didn’t tell me, things I shouldn’t be able to know – I haven’t even told you about this. I get these flashes, these feelings when you’re around. It’s very… hazy. But it’s there. I feel like there’s so much more. There’s so much more that I don’t know – and I promised you I would remember, and I don’t want to let you down, Grantaire.”

Enjolras’ eyes were pleading him to understand, and God, Grantaire so wasn’t cut out for situations like this. He wanted to turn away but found that he couldn’t.

“And because,” Enjolras continued, his voice close to a whisper, “because I don’t feel like someone who was dead, when I’m with you. If that makes sense.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, not ready to see, not ready to hear. But here it was: Enjolras felt something for him, something he couldn’t explain, and Grantaire’s heart soared at the thought. But there was so much still left to be told, so much Grantaire couldn’t say to an Enjolras who looked at him like this _about_ an Enjolras who was gone, in the sense that his memories, his experiences were lost somewhere between the two of them. They were scattered across Paris, thrown over the roads connecting the city and Adamant together.

Grantaire wasn’t sure if he had the strength to pick the pieces up, to try and amend what was going on between the two of them.

Enjolras said that he didn’t feel like someone who had died when he was with Grantaire.

“You don’t feel like that to me either,” he said, and it was a breath that had been burning him for a long time.

Something in Enjolras’ eyes lit up, and he walked ever so slowly closer to Grantaire, his face opening up like a spring flower, his eyes searching his – and then dropping to his lips.

Dear God.

Then – then Enjolras was kissing him, nothing more than a soft touch of lips, nervous and hopeful and real. Grantaire, for a split second, was reminded of all the times he had kissed Enjolras, a thousand memories flooding his brain, familiar and good and right and _wrong –_ and he couldn’t help but cradle Enjolras’ face in his hands and kiss him back, urging him closer and closer.

For the whole moment that it lasted, it was pure bliss – but Grantaire’s tired, weary mind was restless, and he thought about the Enjolras he had buried and the Enjolras he was kissing now; he thought of Éponine telling him that it was okay to love again, of Courfeyrac bursting out in tears at the sight of Enjolras in their midst, of Combeferre telling him not to let this pass him by. And he broke away, gasping for breath.

“You’re so beautiful,” Enjolras muttered, and Grantaire’s heart stopped.

_You are so beautiful_ , Enjolras had said to him before he died, but right now he felt dirty and selfish, and someone who just shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t love the way he did. The Enjolras before him looked wrecked and raw and gorgeous, but all Grantaire felt was a rush of guilt – he couldn’t do this. It felt like cheating. It felt wrong, how _right_ it had felt.

_He is your reward._

Even though he knew that Combeferre was right, that Éponine was right, he just couldn’t do this. Not again.

_He shall be given back to you._

“You need to leave,” he said. “I’m sorry I just – I can’t, I can’t do this to _him_ , I. You need to go away now, please.”

Enjolras’ face fell, like the first chilly snow, but he nodded. And when Grantaire opened the door for him, his heart stammering in his chest, he walked away.

And Grantaire, falling to the floor, destroyed, closed his eyes – and remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and forth about posting this chapter. But this is it I guess? I don't know.  
> One more chapter to go, if all goes to plan.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun was blinding in Paris.

The sun was almost blinding, the day Enjolras died, and now the city of Paris was wrapped in grey continuity, blue breaths, hands red from the cold, people living and dead, perhaps at the same time.

How many things had this city seen? How many deaths, how many births were at the very core of Paris, how many destructions and creations? It was a true enigma; but there was no doubt that Paris was a powerful being. Paris had taken Enjolras away, and Paris gave it back.

Paris was always at work, building and collapsing, but maybe Grantaire wasn’t ready to be given such gifts. He had thought that he was maybe strong enough – but it turned out he most likely wasn’t.

Or he was, but he didn’t want to be.

Enjolras kissed him and he kissed him back, only to push him away and make him go far.

Grantaire still hadn’t called Éponine.

He loved Enjolras. He loved.

He hadn’t called Cosette or Courfeyrac either, although he still had their notes in his pocket.

(What would Enjolras, his Enjolras, say now if he saw Grantaire? Would he judge him, or turn him away?)

The thing was, Grantaire remembered. He hadn’t even been aware that there was something for him to recall, but the moment Enjolras’ lips met his, everything came rushing back to him, a memory from months ago in another town.

He didn’t call anyone, he didn’t do any of that, but went to the bookstore instead. He didn’t even have a shift that day and the store was about to close, with only Jehan inside, standing behind the checkout counter.

“R,” he said, surprised. “Is everything okay?”

“Peachy,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, Jehan, I have something to tell you really fast and you can’t freak out about it.”

Jehan looked scared, his eyes widened. “Okay.”

“Enjolras is alive.”

“I - _what_? Yes, he is. I know this. _You_ know this.”

“No, listen. He is alive. Really alive. And I’m the reason.”

Jehan, who had looked confused up to this point, had begun to look concerned for Grantaire’s mental well-being.

“R, what are you-?”

And he told Jehan everything. Told him about his life in Adamant, his pathetic drunkenness, the bar Éponine worked at, the bathroom, the spirit – everything. The more he spoke, the clearer it all became in his mind, the memory reforming itself, steady and sure. He told him what the spirit had said, how it had showed itself to Grantaire, how, when he had gotten home, there was a message from Combeferre for him about Enjolras.

When he finished, Jehan was staring at him, dumfounded.

“Grantaire, this is – I mean, are you sure that this is what happened? Maybe you were just-”

But Grantaire shook his head. He remembered, and that was the most important thing. He hadn’t even known something was missing from him until Enjolras kissed him, and now he felt complete in the way he hadn’t for years. He remembered something that should have been impossible and lost – which meant there was hope. Hope for him, and hope for Enjolras. For the two of them together.

“No, Jehan, I. For the first time since any of this happened, I just feel – sure. That it’s really possible for him to be real.”

“But his memories-”

“There can always be new memories,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’s alive. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t remember me.”

The entrance door behind them snapped open, and Grantaire didn’t even turn around before he could hear Courfeyrac hollering.

“Jehan, you are not going to believe what happened! Enjolras just- oh, R. I didn’t realize you were here, hi. Uh. I was just saying-”

“Courf,” Enjolras said, casting the man a stern glance. Courfeyrac stopped talking immediately, and Grantaire felt like he had just been swallowed by the very ground he was standing on. The way Enjolras stood there; sure and tall and alive, so undeniable real. His breathing quickened.

Enjolras took his eyes off Courfeyrac and stared back at him, and it was like the sun in the evening sky, warm and mighty and forever. He looked at Grantaire like he was the only thing worth looking at.

“R,” he breathed, his face breaking into a smile. He moved to walk to Grantaire, but seemed to think better of it and stopped himself before he could make even one step. So he just stood there, gazing, speechless, and Grantaire felt like he had been born again.

“Grantaire, I.”

“Hey, Courfeyrac, we should totally go upstairs so I can show you that thing,” Jehan said pointedly, and Courfeyrac nodded eagerly.

“Great, totally. Let’s go then, it’ll take some time.”

And up they went, leaving the two of them stand and gape at each other, and Grantaire was starting to think that maybe something significant happened to Enjolras for him to stand like that and look at him like that, but he couldn’t think of what – he wouldn’t dare.

He thought about the two of them kissing, and his eyes clouded, his hands shaky at his sides.

“Are you okay?”

“I, yes. Yes, yeah, I’m fine. I’m great. But you,” Enjolras said, sucking in a breath. “you look like a way to block water.”

Grantaire couldn’t believe his ears.

“What. What did you just say?”

Enjolras blinked at him, and smiled like heaven was near.

“Because. Because _damn_.”

Grantaire stared at him for what felt like an eternity.

“You remembered.”

“R,” Enjolras couldn’t seem to stop saying his name. “Yes.”

“ _When_?”

“When I kissed you, right after. Everything came back, you, us, everything.”

“The protest?”

“Everything,” Enjolras echoed, and then threw himself at Grantaire, embracing him so hard it almost hurt, but it was the best pain Grantaire had ever felt. He buried his face in Grantaire’s neck, breathing hard against him, and Grantaire shivered.

“It’s really you.”

“It’s really me, Grantaire,” he said, kissing his neck. “I remember you. I remember – god, how could I ever forget? I’m so sorry.”

Grantaire was close to crying once again, and it showed in his laugh. “You really, seriously have nothing to apologize for, you dumbass. I love you.”

“I love you so much,” Enjolras echoed back, fervent. “But no, I do have to apologize. I’m sorry it took me so long to remember. I’m sorry if I ever made you think I wouldn’t.”

“I thought you never would,” Grantaire confessed, his voice weepy. “I thought it wasn’t you. Not really.”

“It’s me,” Enjolras assured him. “It was me.”

“It’s you. I can’t believe it’s you.”

Enjolras hummed, and then they were kissing, and it was every sunset and dawn Grantaire had ever seen, warm, then hot, soft and good and sure. He smiled against Enjolras’ mouth.

“Two years,” he whispered as they broke away. “Two whole years.”

Enjolras touched their foreheads together.

“It’s over now. I’m here.”

“You’re here,” Grantaire agreed whole-heartedly. “And you used our pick-up line on me. That’s what you thought was the best way to let me know.”

“I had to,” Enjolras said, holding him tight. They were never going to let go of the other now. “It’s our thing. You did it first.”

“Yeah, when we met. But _you_ , you have done it twice now. It gets old.”

“Does it?”

“No.” He smiled at Enjolras and leaned in to kiss him again, and it felt like completion. Enjolras was holding his face in his hands like something precious, and he was here, given back to Grantaire by a magical spirit. That was going to be a hell of a story to tell.

“You came back to life,” he said into Enjolras’ mouth, each word coming out as a relieved sob. Enjolras smiled at him shakily.

“Oh you know,” he tried to joke. “Only to annoy you.”

 

 

_Epilogue_

In the great wide city of Paris, the sunsets were red like something living. It gave Grantaire warmth in the autumn evening, to lean back against the wall, and just enjoy the sight of the colors fading into each other, a brilliant light hitting the city.

They were all gathered around in Courfeyrac’s apartment, feeling tired and old and happy, with Cosette and Jehan arguing about who the best Spice Girl was, Courfeyrac sipping beer and smiling as Feuilly spoke, Joly and Bossuet chatting up Musichetta, the friend Éponine had brought up to Paris with her for the weekend. In the back of the room stood Combeferre, in all his glory, his glasses smudged, and his face softened by a warm smile that had been a long time coming.

This was the autumn that Grantaire had always loved, these colors and these people, pushed close to each other, making up the whole painting, the perspective clear.

Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand in his, sweeping their fingers together, like the most natural thing it was.  He leaned against Grantaire, bouncing his knees, and Grantaire didn’t tell him to stop. It felt so good, having Enjolras’ movements against him as proof that he was really there next to him.

In front of them, in one of the armchairs sat Bahorel, stuffing cupcake after cupcake into his mouth, banging his head to the quiet music coming from the speakers.

“Well, that’s healthy,” Enjolras said, his face disgusted and delighted at the same time.

“You know, technically, chocolate is a vegetable,” Grantaire said. “Right, Combeferre?”

“Right,” Combeferre replied, saluting.

Enjolras breathed in, shuffling closer to Grantaire, practically smothering him.

“I want to talk to you about something,” he said, resting his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Hey, you two,” Courfeyrac called out as he walked past them, grabbing a bottle of beer. “Leave some room for Jesus.”

“Don’t worry, his advances are quite welcome, Courf,” Grantaire claimed, pulling the laughing Enjolras even closer.

“So actually,” Enjolras said again, gasping. “There’s something I have wanted to talk to you about for over two years.”

For a moment, Grantaire went rigid. He still felt stern and strange whenever Enjolras’ death came up, even though he was convinced that it was in the past. Still – he sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, reaching for Enjolras to check if he was still there, still breathing.

They were getting through this together.

“What is it?” He asked, swallowing hard. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong. It’s just – do you remember that day I? When I was… shot?”

Grantaire closed his eyes, sighing. “No, Enjolras. See, I don’t remember that. Must have slipped my mind, somehow.”

Enjolras looked sheepish. “Sorry. That was stupid. But – do you remember that I wanted to talk to you about something that day?”

Grantaire shifted.

“Uh, yes. Is that – still on the table?”

“Yes, actually. It’s – I mean you don’t have to say anything now, if you don’t want to, but. Yeah. Um.”

“And you’re so good with words, Enjolras.”

“The thing is, I am. I don’t know what’s happening,” Enjolras said, frowning. “This is just hard to articulate. Maybe if I had my PowerPoint presentation with me.”

Grantaire let out a loud delighted laugh.

“But, alas,” Enjolras went on, looking at Grantaire fondly. He leaned closer to him, whispering in his ear. “That day, after the protest, I. I was going to ask you to marry me.”

Grantaire could feel tears well up in his eyes.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, I. God, Enjolras, I would have said yes.”

Enjolras was looking at him intently. “You can say yes now.”

Grantaire sat up a bit, feeling giddy and almost feverish. “Is that what you want?”

“Um, yes, Grantaire. I think that’s safe to say. In fact, I want it so much, I came back from the dead for it.”

“Wow,” Grantaire sobbed. “Overeager.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Enjolras said, smiling softly. They looked at each other for a moment, content. “So – what do you say?”

“I thought you said I didn’t have to say anything now. This is something that I really need to think _long and hard_ about.”

_“Grantaire_.” Enjolras sounded so pained, Grantaire laughed.

“Sorry, I’m just messing with you.”

“So?”

“Well,” Grantaire began, licking his dry lips. “I’m free _tomorrow_.”

It took Enjolras a moment to understand. “I – really?”

“Really, really,” Grantaire responded, warm all over from the way Enjolras’ eyes lit up, full of joy.

“Oh,” Enjolras said, his cheeks red. “Well, I think I can squeeze you in. For tomorrow.”

The sun, low in the sky now, painted them in a soft orange light, right before sinking beneath the horizon. Later in the night, Enjolras and Grantaire walked home together.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading guys. Love you all.  
> (Have y'all noticed the parallel between the very first and the very last scenes? No? Okay, bye.)


End file.
